Conversations with Lorelei
by Grace E. Dragondale
Summary: Seven hundred years after the game, a girl wanders into the Shinra Mansion and finds it still has a living resident. Be amazed. This fic involves Vincent and an original character, with no romance between the two. Chapter 7 is up.
1. Prologue

Conversations with Lorelei  
  
Author's note: All right, my friends, this is a weird one. This story's been bouncing around in my mind for over a year, and I've decided to finally give in and write it. This story takes place a full seven hundred years after the end of Final Fantasy VII. Yup, you heard me right, seven hundred. Needless to say, I've done a great deal of waving around my poetic license. This story will include the tales of the deaths of nearly every one of the heroes of the game, so if you can't take it, don't read it. Also, please acknowledge the fact that I DO NOT own Final Fantasy VII. If I did, Aeris would not have worn pink, and there would have been a sequel to the game by now. (Other than Kingdom Hearts. It doesn't count, in my eyes.) That said, please enjoy.  
  
***  
  
Prologue  
  
  
  
The mansion had stood in town longer than any citizen of Nibleheim could remember. The wooden planks that composed it were as faded as many of the ancient photographs that great-grandmothers had taken in childhood, but, by some miracle, remained upright. No light ever shone through in the windows at night, no smoke ever emerged from the chimney to betray a fire. Its windows were not boarded-up, but many looked it after seemingly-countless decades of neglect had left dust and mud against glass panes, with only the rain to clean them, occasionally, leaving them a mess of dirty brown streaks no more transparent than they had been before the dust was disturbed. Hailstorms had shattered most of the windows on the mansion's east side, but they were covered only by drapes of rough fabric, faded nearly to a pale tea-rose, though they had been crimson long ago. The wrought-iron gate was rumored to have once been black, but was now a mass of rust that would not fully open nor completely close. A pair of ravens had been nesting in one of the barren trees for twenty years, though whether it was always the same pair was the subject of some debate in the uneventful town. Some said the door was never locked. None had ever dared to test the theory.  
  
  
  
A cold October wind whistled sharply as it blew across every draft it could find in the boards of the mansion, rustling the drapes of the east-side windows as a lone figure stared at the gate. The figure was draped in a heavy woolen coat of charcoal gray, a thermos of hot coffee clutched in one gloveless hand, a small volume with a worn leather cover in the other. She had seen the mansion, heard and shivered at the tales of it, listened to the ravens' cries, all her life. As all the other children of the town, she had received dares to set foot on the unkempt weeds of its yard, and had always declined them. There was something about the place that not even the most arrogant child of Nibleheim could conquer, an eerie and cold aura that even the pride of a fifteen-year-old boy could never have overcome.   
  
Today, it was different.  
  
Lorelei Calldrick was fourteen years old, and had never left the Nibleheim in those fourteen years. Really, she had never wanted to. She had lived in a white stucco house on the outskirts of town with her older brother, Ian, since her mother had died years ago, and had always been content to simply look at the mansion from her bedroom window, waiting for her brother to return from his day of mining mithril in mount Nibel.  
  
The previous evening, he had not returned from work. Lorelei had told no one; she simply went to bed, awakened at dawn, made a pot of coffee, threw on her coat, and walked to the gates of the mansion. She couldn't tell the people of the town of Ian's disappearance. If she did, she would have to listen to people whisper as she walked by, knowing perfectly well that they were saying.   
  
"Such a shame, the poor child all alone..."  
  
"Someone really ought to take her in."   
  
"Isn't it terrible that Ian's passed away like that?"  
  
  
  
Her brother wasn't dead. She couldn't believe he was.  
  
  
  
She could feel eyes watching her, as she brought her free hand up to the rusty gate, trying to push it open enough to squeeze through, and getting only a slight creak of protest in return.   
  
"There's no way you're gonna go in there," a self-assured voice jeered, "'cause Little Lorie's too scared."  
  
Lorelei turned to look at the perfect, freckled face of Renate Terrings, the most sought-after girl in Nibleheim. Renate seemed to have a particular hatred for Lorelei, and had always made it perfectly obvious. Seeing Renate's luxurious red curls, her flawlessly-done makeup, and her flattering, expensive clothes made Lorelei horribly conscious of her own appearance. Lorelei's honey-blonde hair was pulled into a haphazard ponytail, and she wore patched and faded black jeans, along with an oversized green sweatshirt that she had found in Ian's closet.  
  
  
  
"You haven't got the guts to go in there," Renate taunted, "Even if you were strong enough to open the gate."  
  
Lorelei narrowed her deep-blue eyes, and rammed the gate with her shoulder, grating her teeth at the sound of screeching metal.  
  
"Watch me," she said simply, resisting the temptation to spit on the popular girl's undoubtably-expensive patent-leather shoes, and beginning to wade through the thickly-grown weeds.  
  
She took some satisfaction at the gasp she heard from Renate, but did not look back, even when the redhead spoke up again.  
  
"I'm going to go tell everyone you went in, because you're never coming back! I bet someone'll throw a party 'cause of that!"  
  
"Yeah, sure!" Lorelei laughed, "I bet you'll actually invite me to this one!"  
  
As she came to the mansion's battered wooden door, Lorelei seemed to loose some connection with the real world. It was as though all her life had been a dream, and that, upon opening that simple portal of wood, she would be, for the first time, opening her eyes. She found the wood strangely smooth and cold beneath her hands as she forced the door open, like the feel of a piece of glass lost in the ocean for years, its every sharp edge worn away by an endless caress of current and sand. There was no creak as the door swung open; its hinges might well have been in perfect repair. Instead, it seemed to simply brush the air with a sound like a mournful sigh. For several minutes, she slowly made her way across the floor, taking in the sight of the place, amazed, not noticing that the door drifted to a close behind her.   
  
She was surprised to find that the place seemed not quite so unkempt as she would have thought. There was lingering dust on some of the floorboards, but it was not nearly so thick as she might have believed, and, when she went to investigate a window, she found that, while its outside was caked with years of dirt and dust, on the inside, its glass was without so much as a fingerprint.   
  
  
  
"This is impossible..."she murmured, "It looks like someone actually cleaned this sometime in the last century...hell, it could've been done yesterday...either this place isn't haunted, or it has some majorly obsessive-compulsive ghosts..."  
  
Lorelei stood at the window for several long moments, as though staring at the glass would somehow reveal the answer to the mystery. The only change that occurred at all, in that space of time, was a scent that made the young girl wrinkle her nose.  
  
"Eww.." she muttered, "What I wouldn't give to know why this place has the ability to suddenly take on the smell of rotting pumpkins."  
  
Her blue eyes were wide, indeed, as she turned and spotted the answer.  
  
In the air before her floated the three strangest things Lorelei had ever seen in her young life. They seemed to be jack-o-lanterns, smartly dressed with white collars of starched ruffles, and pink bows near their stems. As though that had not been odd enough, one of them seemed to somehow wink its carved-out eye at the girl, making its maddened grin seem all the more eerie. In that moment, there was only one plan that came to her mind.  
  
"...shit!"she exclaimed, running as fast as she could toward the door.  
  
Her pace slowed, then, as a purple-pink mist seemed to wrap around her. She could smell something sickly-sweet, though she could not quite tell what the scent was, and breathed deeper, trying to identify it. She felt suddenly dizzy, and her vision became a blur; all she could see were faint splashes of orange and pink and white all about her. There was a loud, sharp sound that seemed to echo in her mind, and, after several seconds of thought, she realized it was a gunshot.  
  
"...these things have guns?!" she screamed, a sudden terror gripping her.   
  
Any capacity for rational thought she had left fled in that moment. She could think of only one thing: she had to fight her way out. She rushed for one of the creatures to her right, forgetting that she was entirely unarmed, forgetting that she had never been in or even seen any fight save for those that young children might get into with their peers. She felt her fist connect with something hard and cold, that gave a dull thud, as though she had simply punched a suit of armor that happened to be in use, at the time. Another gunshot sounded, and she tried once more to beat on what appeared to be the creature's jack-o-landern face, answered only with the same unyielding metallic ring, accompanied only by a faint sigh of annoyance, and the sound of another shot.  
  
  
  
She felt a slap across her face, not overly harsh, but certainly sharp enough to make her flinch. She was about to protest, but found that her vision had cleared.  
  
The girl looked up at a tall man with long, raven-black hair framing his pale face, or, at least, what she could see of it, for everything below his nose was concealed by the high collar of a crimson cloak. She backed up a step, when she realized that its fabric matched perfectly with his eyes, and that his left arm seemed to be a claw comprised of metal that was a dull golden color.  
  
"I-I'm sorry..." Lorelei stammered, "...I thought you were a pumpkin."  
  
No emotion was visible in the man's red eyes, as he looked down at the girl, nor was any apparent when he spoke, though his voice was quiet and smooth.  
  
"You are lucky to be alive... or perhaps not. I advise you to tell your parents that they have been quite negligent..." he told her.  
  
"Well...seeing as I've never met my father, and my mother drown when I was nine, I think they have an excuse," she shrugged, with a bit of a nervous smile.  
  
"...that is none of my concern..." he said after a moment's pause, his cold, detached tone unchanging, "It is time for you to leave."  
  
"But I can't!" she declared, "If I leave now, everyone will think I got scared!"  
  
"...and they will be correct," he replied.  
  
"I don't see why I can't stay," she pouted, crossing her arms, "I mean, you can protect me-"  
  
"I'm capable of doing so," the man interrupted, "What makes you believe that I would wish to?"  
  
"Well, you already have," she said with a shrug.  
  
"Lightning once struck the roof of this building. That does not necessarily mean it will do so again."  
  
  
  
"Well, aren't you just Mr. Sunshine," she said, rolling her eyes.  
  
The man raised an eyebrow at that, though he showed no other change of expression.  
  
"You seem to enjoy coming up with unlikely titles for me," he remarked.  
  
"Yeah, well, I might stop coming up with them if you told me your name."  
  
  
  
"The same would hold true if you left this place."  
  
"No..." she said with a thoughtful expression, "I think I'd still come up with names for you if I was bored. Might even make a list."  
  
"A list I would never have to read."  
  
"Maybe we got off on the wrong foot," she said, "Let's start over. I'm Lorelei Calldrick. Thanks for saving me from the pumpkin-things."  
  
"You should leave now, Lorelei Calldrick. You're unwelcome here."  
  
"You're mean, Mr. Sunshine," Lorelei told him with an exaggerated sniffle, "How come?"  
  
"...life..." was his only reply, a touch of bitterness seeming to come to his voice.  
  
Lorelei stood, blinking, for a few moments, unsure of what to say.  
  
"Look..." she awkwardly began, after while, "Just...tell me your name, and I'll leave. Alright?"  
  
"...very well..." he murmured, "...Vincent...."  
  
"Neat. I always liked that name," Lorelei said cheerfully, beginning to half-skip toward the door, "I'll be going, then!"  
  
She couldn't help but smile, as Vincent followed her to the door, and, even as she opened it, and heard him close it behind her, she began to whistle a jaunty tune. She sat down on the front step, took out her thermos, and sipped her coffee.  
  
True, she had said she would leave.  
  
But she hadn't promised not to come back... 


	2. Circle Unbroken

Conversations with Lorelei  
  
Author's note: Wow...people actually reviewed. I'm amazed. My deepest thanks to all that did so; if you hadn't, I likely wouldn't have written this chapter.  
  
That said, this chapter is where things start to get very, very angsty, and Vincent starts telling the stories of how his old friends died. This chapter focuses on the death of Tifa, so if you can't take that, I suggest you don't read this. I mean no offense to any character I kill off; that's just the way the story goes.   
  
Once again, I do not own Final Fantasy VII, and am making no money writing this, so please refrain from suing me. It really wouldn't be worth the trouble.  
  
***  
  
  
  
Circle Unbroken  
  
Lorelei awoke to the sound of something pounding on wood, and did not even bother changing out of her flannel pajamas as she sprang from her bed and rushed downstairs, peeking out the front window.  
  
The man who stood on the front porch, impatiently rapping on the door, was undoubtedly the largest the young girl had ever seen. He was easily seven feet tall, and rather overweight; enough so that the buttons of his blue shirt seemed stressed to the point where they might break any second. He wore thick glasses with tarnished silver frames, and his salt-and-pepper hair was noticeably thinning. Lorelei had seen him many times before, but was still startled by the sight of him.  
  
"Lorelei Amanda Calldrick, I know you're in there!" he bellowed in a voice so deep the girl thought she could feel the entire house vibrate, "I saw you stealing a glance out the window like a little blonde prairie dog. Now open this door at once!"  
  
She could only swallow hard and obey, far too intimidated to risk ignoring the man.   
  
"Yes, Mr. Danvers?" she asked, a bit shakily.  
  
"You just got up?" he inquired, seeming to examine her attire with a sour look, "The youngsters in this town get lazier every day!"   
  
"Maybe I was up late cleaning my room," she shrugged, knowing full well that, given her reputation for sloppiness, he would never believe the lie.  
  
"Don't get smart with me, missy!" Danvers roared, shaking a huge, pudgy finger at her, "That always was your problem: no respect for others!"  
  
"I'm very sorry, Postmaster Danvers, Sir," she said in a tone far too polite to be sincere, "But Ian is sick, and I've been up all night taking care of him. I got to bed just half an hour ago, and rushed down so my poor brother wouldn't be bothered by the racket of your knocking."  
  
"You're lying again, girl," he said flatly, narrowing his stormy-gray eyes, "Your brother isn't at home."  
  
"Maybe he went to a doctor."   
  
Danvers growled a few inaudible things under his breath, and took an envelope from the bag that hung at his side.  
  
Lorelei's eyes widened as she looked at the return address; its first line read "New Hill Family Services".   
  
"Return to sender!" she shouted, slamming the door in the postmaster's face, bolting it, and stuffing a rug underneath it to keep him from sliding the envelope under the door.  
  
She hurried about the house, then, pulling all the drapes closed, and turning off all of the lights she had left on the night before. She huddled in a corner of the darkened living room, hugging her knees, and fighting back tears.  
  
She could remember all too well the last envelope that had come from New Hill Family Services. It had been delivered shortly after her mother's death, and had stated that her father had been located, and wished to regain custody of his children. For the first time in her young life, Lorelei had seen her brother Ian look frightened, and had heard him swear, as he tore the letter into pieces and threw them on the fire. Something about their father obviously unnerved Ian, and Lorelei was not about to accept another letter from New Hill.  
  
It was a long while before the sound of Danvers shouting and pounding on the door subsided. Even then, Lorelei moved as quietly and cautiously as she could, as though she feared that he would return if she made the slightest sound.  
  
'He'll be back, though,' she thought with more than a bit of dismay, 'Maybe he'll even bring a locksmith, or something...I have to get out of here, but where could I-'  
  
The girl smiled, ever-so-slightly, as the answer to her question came to mind. She put on a pot of coffee to brew while she dressed, and made a brief attempt at taming the tangled mass of her blonde hair into a ponytail.  
  
She filled her thermos with coffee, but, as she began to reach for her coat, she hesitated a moment.  
  
'I guess the mansion is pretty dangerous,' she thought, 'Especially if Vincent isn't anywhere where he can hear me...'  
  
She opened one of the kitchen drawers, pushing its contents to the back, and lifting out the false bottom. For several moments, she could only stare at the black-handled switchblade that had been hidden there. It belonged to Ian, and Lorelei was actually not supposed to be aware the weapon even existed.   
  
Biting her lip and swallowing hard to steel herself, Lorelei took the knife, and put it in her right pocket. She pulled on her coat, and left the house at a sprint, making every bit of speed she could toward the old mansion.  
  
Ian would just have to understand.  
  
***  
  
The moment the mansion came into view, Lorelei seemed to lose track of the rest of the world. She didn't notice Renate Terrings jeering at her once more, nor did she hear Postmaster Danvers calling out after her. All she could do was run for the old iron gate, shoulder it open, and race on to the door. It would almost certainly be dangerous inside, but at least nothing would dare to follow her inside.   
  
She actually breathed a sigh of relief, as she closed the door behind her, leaning against the doorframe to catch her breath. She slipped a hand into her pocket, checking to see that the blade was still there. She jumped in surprise when she heard a gunshot, and caught the flash of the bullet out of the corner of her eye, as it blasted through one of the mansion's ancient walls.  
  
"I should think, Miss Calldrick, that even your deceased mother should be able to control you well enough to keep you from coming here a second time," said a smooth, cold voice.  
  
"What gives, Vincent?!" Lorelei demanded, still shaking a bit as she looked to the bullet hole less than an inch from her head, "You could've killed me!"  
  
"Yes... I certainly could have," he told her emotionlessly, "Particularly since I was standing directly in front of you, at a fairly close range, and you failed to even notice me. Whatever excuse for a weapon you have in your pocket will do you no good if you are not alert enough to strike before your enemy has slain you."  
  
"Give me a break...I've had a hard day," Lorelei pouted, "I had to hide from the mailman."  
  
Vincent gave her a blank look, and actually scoffed at her.  
  
"If you deliver that excuse to any other creature in this place, you will not only accomplish nothing, but will give it more time to attack. I don't care if you have been running from the devil himself...you are still a fool to come here, and more of one to let yourself be careless within these walls. This place is no safe haven...it is a hell in itself...a nightmare unending, that shall touch with its shadow every soul that dares enter it..."  
  
She blinked at him silently for a few moments, slack-jawed.  
  
"Wow...that was bleak," she said at last, her tone one of amazement, "Did you rehearse it?"  
  
"Your irreverence seems unending."  
  
"What can I say?" the girl shrugged, "I'm a teenager."  
  
He turned away, at that, and began making his way toward a set of stairs.  
  
"If you ever wish to surpass that...leave, or follow me closely...."  
  
She stood stock-still, for a moment, utterly surprised by the strange, cold man's words.  
  
"W-wait!"she called out, running to catch up with him, and wincing at the echoing sound of her steps, where Vincent's seemed no louder than those of a slinking cat, "Did you say what I think you said?!"  
  
He made no reply as he led her through the mansion, down a long spiral staircase Lorelei was almost certain would crumble beneath her feet. If he noticed her at all-which the girl was certain he did, given the racket of her footsteps- he showed no sign of it.  
  
At last, they came to a room that looked much like a library, filled with bookshelves full of tomes that seemed to leer at the young girl, flaunting the fact that any one of them was likely at least a century her elder. It was lit only by several stands of candles, and there was a musty flavor to the air. Vincent turned to her, then, gesturing to an armchair upholstered in wine-colored velvet.   
  
"Sit down..." he told her, waiting for the girl to obey before he continued, "And tell me if there is any possible combination of words that I might string together to convince you to leave and never return."  
  
Lorelei seemed to genuinely ponder his request for several moments, before shaking her head.  
  
"Can't think of any, but then, what do you expect? I mean, I'm a blonde-"  
  
"First," he interrupted, "You will stop making excuses for your shortcomings, particularly excuses that involve stereotypes and are thus more tired and worn than the tiny part of me that struggles to be optimistic. Now tell me the true reason you 'can't think of any'."  
  
"I'm...stubborn, I guess," she replied, "And I'm so sick of the world out there, I don't think anything could get me to go back there a second sooner than I had to."  
  
"...Indeed..." he murmured, his tone unreasonable, "Now, tell me how often you plan to take your life into your hands by coming here to pester me."  
  
"Um...I'd say something in the ballpark of every day. My life is sort of messed up."  
  
"Another excuse?"   
  
"No. My life is messed up, so I want some way to escape it. ...And I'm curious, I guess."  
  
"Show me your weapon."  
  
Lorelei fumbled for the knife in her pocket, blushing a bit brighter with each awkward movement she made as she triggered the blade to spring out. She only managed on her fifth try.  
  
"...pathetic..." Vincent said, as he took up the knife, examining the five-inch blade, and giving the girl an appraising look.   
  
"You don't have to be mean about it," she muttered.  
  
The black-haired man made the blade retract, and tossed the weapon onto her lap.  
  
"Never bring that puny bit of steel here again," he told her, "You have no idea how to draw it, and would only waste precious time in the attempt. You would be better off using your bare hands."  
  
"Because they did me so much good last time," she said, without a drop of sincerity, putting the knife into her pocket once more.  
  
He opened a cabinet, and, after a few moments of rummaging through it, he walked over to her, and placed a small pistol on her lap, a bit of annoyance actually coming to his expression as the girl jumped, looking at the weapon as though a poisonous snake had just been set on her knees.  
  
"Is that thing...loaded?" she asked, her blue eyes wide.  
  
"It would do you little good if it were not," he told her, "And don't recoil from it. It is no more monstrous than the knife in your pocket. It is an object. In itself, it is not dangerous. In the hand of someone with no idea how to use it, or those of one who intends to harm the undeserving, it is an abomination. In those of one both skilled and well-meaning...it can be a tool for the greater good...whatever that may be worth."  
  
"B-but...I could kill something with this..." Lorelei stammered.  
  
"That remains to be seen," said Vincent, "You will learn to use it. Until you have proven yourself competent, it will only be borrowed. When I am satisfied with your progress, it will become yours."  
  
She found nothing to say, still looking down at the little gun, her fear slowly fading into curiosity. She tilted her head to the side, brushing a finger along a tiny green orb that seemed to be set into the handle.  
  
"What's this thing, Vincent?"  
  
"Put the gun on the table beside you," he almost snapped, "That is materia; something with far more potential to be dangerous than a bullet...I will not remove it from the weapon, but if you try to use it before I give you permission, I will not allow you to enter this place again."  
  
Lorelei's face blanched as she set the pistol on the top of a small table, awkwardly folding her hands in her lap.  
  
"So...what now?" she asked after several moments of silence.  
  
"...now..." Vincent said, sitting down in a chair across from hers, "We begin to sate your curiosity. Ask me a question you deem significant."  
  
"Okay..."she said, chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully, "Let's see...you prolly won't let me have too many of these, so I should make it a decent one...I've got it! At the risk of getting an answer that involves me, what's the dumbest thing you've ever heard?"  
  
He bowed his head, and gave the slightest bit of a bitter laugh. Lorelei found the sound to be not at all comforting; indeed, she wondered if she wanted more to run away screaming, or burst into tears.  
  
"...A famous fool," he began, his voice almost imperceptibly wavering, "Coined the phrase ' 'tis better to have loved, and to have lost, than never to have loved at all.' It is the deepest, most offensive fallacy that has ever been spoken. To have the one soul you could truly bind to your own...the single other being that would complete you in every flight of passion, need, affection, support, and whimsy...the one for whom you have been created, and would give your very spirit to protect....to have that one torn away from you is the greatest agony any creature of flesh and mind can ever know. It is the root of the greatest tragedies of this world, increased only by particularly cruel details of guilt, innocence, and coincidence...or by simple, merciless repetition. It is a pain I have known for long years, and one that has not dulled in all the centuries I have lived. Few know it so well as I do...."  
  
He paused, for a moment, and closed his crimson eyes.  
  
"...except, perhaps...for Tifa."  
  
"Tifa?" Lorelei asked, her brow furrowing, "Tifa Lockheart? I think there's a really old statue of her in the middle of town. If it's accurate...I'm jealous of her build."  
  
Vincent gave her a disapproving look, but it faded away to his stoic mask soon enough.  
  
"Yes...Tifa Lockheart...or occasionally, Tifa Strife..."  
  
"Wait a minute, Vincent," Lorelei said, her eyebrows raised, "Just wait a minute. You want me to believe that you actually knew Tifa Lockheart? She lived, like, a zillion years ago! There is no way-"  
  
"It is never a wise thing to tell people what they can and cannot be. Most will know their own history far better than you will."  
  
"But come on!" the girl insisted, "You could maybe be thirty, but there's no way you could be-"  
  
"In three days' time, I will be seven hundred and sixty-five years old.You can accept that, and let me continue, or you can leave."  
  
"A'righties..." Lorelei sighed, "But for the record, I think you're a nutcase."  
  
  
  
"You do realize how open to a counter-argument that statement leaves you?"  
  
"Yes, yes...I know. Takes one to know one, and all that."  
  
"And are you finished?"  
  
"Like a thousand-gil rocking chair."  
  
"To continue...May I assume that you have read something of the great endeavor that made Tifa Lockheart a legend?"  
  
"No. I have spent my entire life living in a really big glass jar with only one airhole in the lid," she told him, rolling her eyes, "Of course I've read about it. It never said anything about you, though. There was a lot about some Ancient girl who got killed, and a megalomaniac who should have been dead, and Tifa, and some guy named Cloud. I think he was supposed to be important, but he seemed pretty boring, so I skipped over a lot of the stuff about him."  
  
"Then you know of the feelings between Cloud and the Aeris, the Ancient?"   
  
"I know people speculated about that one a lot," the girl shrugged, "But historians have an annoying little habit of always answering every question with 'maybe', so they can't be proven wrong."  
  
Vincent nodded, and sighed softly.  
  
"I did, indeed, travel with Cloud, and all the rest...I had my own score to settle with one of their enemies. Life had already taught me to keep my distance from people, however, and so I said very little. I spoke only rarely, usually only when it was absolutely necessary. Ironically, it was that very thing that made all of them find their way closer to me. I was the one who would never interrupt the story of another, the one they could trust with all of their secrets, for who would I possibly tell? And so, I became the diary of all those lost souls, the one who would keep the memory of their sorrows. The pain they felt would live on in me, long after the last of them perished, their nightmares melding with my own...and you will be the only other who knows. The tales I can tell you do not end well. In truth, few stories do, for the only true ending is death, if that proves to be an ending at all. You would be wise to stop me, and spare yourself the burden of knowing these secrets..."  
  
"Honestly...do you practice being that depressing?" Lorelei asked, seeming genuinely amazed. Her look turned sheepish as Vincent's eyes narrowed. "Er...I don't mind knowing. Go on."  
  
"Very well..."he said, closing his eyes once more, "Cloud thought of Aeris as his true love...or at least, a large part of him did. Her death was a terrible blow to him, but, while he fought to avenge her, he could sublimate his pain...I understood that well enough. Still, the fight had to end. As any man who is not wise enough to give up hope, Cloud was not content to be alone, in the aftermath of the struggle, and Tifa was more than willing to be with him. Just as Cloud loved Aeris, Tifa loved Cloud, though perhaps that is an understatement of Tifa's devotion.   
  
"It was only a short time, before the two were married...at first, it went well. They made a home for themselves in this very town, where both of them had been born and raised. Our adventure had provided us all with money enough to live comfortably for quite some time, and so they did. Both seemed happy enough...happiness serves little purpose, save to add a stronger sting to the sorrow that follows it.  
  
"Cloud could not forget Aeris. Even in Tifa's arms, his thoughts often drifted to the emerald-eyed Cetra...He called for her in his sleep, mistook her name for that of his wife at the most inopportune times, and, now and then, found he could not hold back his tears at the thought of her loss.  
  
"Loyalty is a rare thing, in this world. Many try with all their might to be loyal, and still fail miserably. Tifa endured. Despite every action Cloud took, regardless of how it hurt her, never once did she hold it against him, and never once did her eyes wander. Her dedication was undying, and to this day, I cannot quite decide if that made her a genius, or a fool. Even when Cloud began to go on pilgrimages to the City of the Ancients, even when he became obsessed with finding a way to bring Aeris back to him, Tifa stayed by his side.  
  
"Cloud knew what he was doing, and knew that it was wrong to treat Tifa the way he did. After two years of marriage, he divorced her, trying to save her from himself. She did not stand in his way. Less than a year later, loneliness took hold of him again, and, despite his best intentions, he asked Tifa to take him back. She welcomed him with open arms. Cloud still could not banish his obsession with Aeris...and so the cycle began anew. In the five years that followed, the two were separated five times, and divorced three. Cloud always begged for Tifa's forgiveness, and always, she gave it.   
  
"Two months after their final wedding, Tifa discovered she was with child. Cloud tried to be overjoyed at the news, but in truth, he could scarcely stand it. A part of him honestly loved Tifa, but so, too, did a part of him love Aeris. He was a torn man, and the notion of Tifa having his child seemed to make his decision for him. Of all the things Cloud Strife hated, the first and foremost was not being in complete control of his own life. He left Tifa three months later, without notice. He did not contact her, or any of us, again until it was too late.   
  
"Another of our comrades, Barret Wallace, and his own adoptive daughter Marlene, moved to Nibleheim to help care for Tifa. The two had been close friends for many years, but even such familiar company was not enough to heal the blow of Cloud's disappearance. Tifa blamed herself, and, day by day, her inner strength seemed to fade. No more was she strong, dependable woman we had come to know; the heart of our group, the one who cared for us all with a nurturing devotion unrivaled. When Cloud abandoned Tifa and their child, he destroyed Tifa'spirit.   
  
"The child, Naomi Strife, was born a full two months late. She was a healthy child, but it seemed almost as though any vitality she had, had been taken directly from her mother. Tifa's own health quickly diminished, and an illness had claimed her life before her daughter's first birthday. Tifa Lockheart, the warrior who had survived battling countless and powerful foes, fell, ingloriously, to sickness. Her loyalty had been repaid with betrayal.  
  
"Soon after her death, Cloud returned to Nibleheim, intending to raise his daughter. Before long, he disappeared once more, and, when he returned several years later, Naomi forgave him, just as her mother had. Cloud's every betrayal was forgiven. So, too, was it always repeated. The circle ended only with Cloud's life, becoming a terrible spiral, ever adding more salt to the wounds of those involved.  
  
"Cloud had lost Aeris once. Tifa lost Cloud time and again. The pain both carried has not flown, but lingers on in memory. It grows only slightly, now, but I cannot forget it. It has become a part of my own sorrow. The pain lost love can bring has no end, even in death.... The circle is forever unbroken."  
  
It was several minutes after Vincent finished before Lorelei could find any reply.   
  
"...so what happened to Naomi, and Cloud?" she asked at length.  
  
"...a tale for another day..." Vincent murmured, "The telling of this one alone has wearied me... Come; you can take your first lesson in firearms, and then be on your way. I have little doubt you will return..."  
  
***  
  
  
  
The sun had set, by the time Lorelei made her way home. She was tired, and more than a bit hungry; Vincent had allowed for no breaks in the lesson, despite his claim that he, himself, was nearly exhausted. He had also insisted that her only targets be the ghosts and monsters that inhabited the mansion, telling her that few targets she would encounter would actually be still. Out of thirty shots she had taken that day, only two had hit their mark.  
  
  
  
She had a feeling it would be a long while before the little pistol now in a holster at her belt would be considered hers.   
  
Vincent's story, too, began to tug at her mind, raising a thousand questions she did not wish to know the answers to. Could Ian really be capable of abandoning her? Could she forgive her own father, as Naomi had forgiven Cloud? If she could, would that be the right or wrong choice?  
  
Yet, even as she began to rummage through the cupboards in search of dinner, she had to admit that there was one thing she was certain of.  
  
She would go back to the mansion, if only to show Vincent that his melancholy tales and grueling lessons were not enough to defeat her. 


	3. Grasping at Straws

Conversations with Lorelei  
  
Author's note: My deepest apologies for the wait...this would have been up much, much sooner had my server not decided to be completely and utterly evil, and refuse to let me on....pretty much since chapter two went up. (Free internet: you get what you pay for.) My thanks to everyone who reviewed; your comments feed my ego enough to convince me this story is worth continuing.  
  
Anywayz, because of Cait Sith's being a stuffed animal and all, this segment of the story is about Reeve instead. (I actually like Reeve...but then I'm a little odd.) Please enjoy, and remember that the more reviews I get, the sooner (server willing) the tale shall be continued.  
  
***  
  
Grasping at Straws  
  
Lorelei could only groan as the alarm clock went off in the next room, and silently berated herself for not bringing it into her own room, where she could easily stop its irritating buzz.  
  
"Shut up..." she sleepily murmured, knowing full well that the little machine was not particularly likely to listen to her.   
  
The girl half-rolled, half-fell out of bed. She was glad, indeed, that there was no one present to see her try to rub her aching left shoulder and wipe the sleep from her eyes at the same time; the attempt was actually coordinated poorly enough that her hands collided. The hardwood floor was cold beneath her bare feet, and she nearly tripped on her way down the stairs.  
  
"You're a mean, terrible man, Vincent," she muttered, rubbing her shoulder more successfully, "The recoil on that gun you gave me doesn't seem like much at the time...but damn, does it catch up with you in the morning...I need coffee...and painkiller..."  
  
She swore under her breath when she reached the kitchen, and found the coffee can completely empty. Grumbling all the while, she pulled a soda out of the refrigerator, and took a bottle of medication down from the spice rack.  
  
"Let's see...The bottle says to take two. Eh, four won't kill me..."  
  
It was not until she had swallowed the pills, and begun to eat the marshmallows out of a bag of cereal, that Lorelei realized that there was someone pounding on the window. Had she been any less tired, she would have laughed aloud as she peered out the pane of glass.  
  
Renate Terrings was outside, her cheeks as red as her hair, and a scowl upon her face that could have curdled milk. Her curls, always so carefully tended, were in disarray nearly as great as the ponytail Lorelei hadn't bothered trying to fix in four days, and her eyes seemed small, almost beady, without mascara and shadow to accentuate them. Perhaps best of all, a pair of glasses with round, hot-pink plastic frames were perched on her nose.  
  
Lorelei couldn't resist making faces at the window for at least two minutes before opening it.  
  
"What the HELL do you think you're doing?!" Renate demanded, when Lorelei had finally slid the window open.  
  
"Exercising," Lorelei said, crossing her arms to keep her hands in the folds of her flannel pajamas as the cold air blew in, "I wouldn't want my face to get out of shape, now would I?"  
  
"Oh, who cares?! You're hopeless anyway," the red-haired girl said, rolling her eyes.  
  
"The glasses are a nice touch. Clash a little with your hair, though."  
  
"Shut up, you little-!"  
  
"Gladly," Lorelei shrugged, reaching over to close the window.  
  
"Don't you DARE!" Renate shouted, "I meant you should shut your sarcastic little mouth!"  
  
"I'm so sorry I didn't know. I sent my third eye-you know, the one that lets me see what spoiled brats think-to the cleaners, so..."  
  
"That's exactly what I mean," Renate said with an exasperated sigh.  
  
"Your breath is terrible. Is there a reason you're blowing it into my house, other than the fact that you're just evil?"  
  
"You left your stupid alarm clock on...do you have any idea what time it is?"  
  
"Before midnight, unless time flies when you're speaking with demons. And that's impossible I don't own an alarm clock, myself."   
  
"Your brother's, then."  
  
"Ian didn't leave his alarm clock on."  
  
"I know he didn't you little dumb blonde! He couldn't've, since he's dead! You left his alarm clock on!"  
  
Lorelei's blue eyes narrowed, at that, her expression becoming deathly serious.  
  
"Go away, Renate."  
  
"And why should I?"   
  
"Because I have a gun."  
  
"You do NOT, liar!"  
  
"Your mastery of denial is impressive..." Lorelei said in perfect monotone, as she reached into the kitchen drawer and pulled out the little pistol.  
  
"Th-that isn't real..." Renate stammered.  
  
"Isn't it?" Lorelei asked, arching an eyebrow.  
  
"...I'll get you back for this!" the red-haired girl screamed, running back for her own house.  
  
Lorelei couldn't help but snicker as she got ready to leave.  
  
***  
  
By the time she stepped into the Shinra mansion, Lorelei's mood was greatly improved; enough so that, when she saw the flash of crimson that betrayed Vincent's presence among the shadows, she sprinted over and wrapped her arms around him.  
  
"Vincent! You wouldn't believe how great acting like you is at getting annoying people to go away!" she cried happily.  
  
The raven-haired man seemed to go stock-still the moment she touched him, and he spoke, several moments later, his voice seemed frantic, with an edge of rage that made the girl stagger back.  
  
"Apparently, it is not nearly effective enough!" he snapped, his usually-quiet voice rising almost to a shout.  
  
The angry flash in Vincent's red eyes made Lorelei's own eyes widen with fear, and, when she tried to speak an apology, she found her teeth chattering, and her throat too tight to allow her more than a strained squeak. She felt as though the cold fire in those eyes was tearing at her very soul. She tried to look away, but somehow, could not quite manage the task. It seemed almost as though Vincent grew even taller than Postmaster Danvers could hope to be, towering over the young girl like the larger-than-life statue of an ancient and ruthless monarch.  
  
"Never touch me again," was his frigid hiss.   
  
Every word might just as well have been etched upon a heavy stone and thrown at the young girl.  
  
For the first time in her young life, Lorelei Calldrick, whose pride had always been enough to make her seem the bravest creature on the planet, was frightened enough that she simply fainted.  
  
***  
  
"...So you've awakened, after all..."  
  
  
  
Vincent's voice was smooth and quiet once more, and held a trace of remorse, but as she stirred, Lorelei still did not dare to open her eyes.  
  
"I...I guess four painkillers, colored marshmallows, and cream soda isn't a balanced breakfast..." she said meekly.  
  
"It...is gracious of you to offer that excuse..." he replied.  
  
"...I wasn't scared..." she said, almost inaudibly, and not at all believably.  
  
"...And I was not terribly out-of-line..."  
  
"Glad we got that cleared up," she said with a weak smile, finally opening her eyes.  
  
She blinked several times, as though not quite believing her surroundings.  
  
"Vincent...why am I in a coffin? An open one, granted, and the lining is nice and velvety, don't get my wrong, I'm grateful for that, but...This is definitely a coffin..."  
  
"Perhaps I did not expect you to wake," he said, his expression and tone completely unreadable.  
  
"I really need to figure out how to tell when you're kidding," Lorelei said, shaking her head, "Or I am so going to have a heart attack before I'm twenty."  
  
"I thought you were not frightened."  
  
"Touche`," she replied, with a bit of a laugh, "So anyway, I guess we'll be starting lessons, then..."  
  
"I think you should rest a bit longer before you try to stand," he replied, "And I believe you should also have something a bit more substantial to eat...particularly considering your little overdose."  
  
"Do you think I overdosed on sugar, or medication?"  
  
"Both."  
  
"Oh, come on...I'll be fine!" she protested.  
  
"Do you want to hear a story, or not?" he asked, handing her a plate with a sandwich on it, and a glass of milk.  
  
"Fine..." the girl pouted, "But do I have to stay in the coffin?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Think of it as a lesson...a reminder of what might happen if you ignore too many labels on pill bottles."  
  
"You really aren't going to let go of that one, are you?" she asked, exasperated, "It was your fault anyway...my shoulder hurt like hell after all that target practice yesterday."  
  
"Blaming others for your own irresponsible actions will achieve nothing. Gaining skill with any weapon is no easy task, and if your are unwilling to accept that, I will stop instructing you, and take back my gun."  
  
"Okay, okay, I get it..." Lorelei sighed, taking a bite of the sandwich, "...and you really shouldn't use so much mustard."  
  
"I would consider myself at fault, but since you just spoke with your mouth full, I suppose we can call it even."  
  
Lorelei rolled her eyes, but swallowed before she spoke again.  
  
"So are you going to tell me what happened to Naomi, now?"  
  
"No," he answered simply.  
  
"What? You said you were going to tell a story..."  
  
"There is a story that comes before the next segment of hers..." Vincent began, "Doubtless, you have heard of Shinra corporation, and of Midgar...and of Cait Sith, the spy that betrayed Cloud during our quest."  
  
"Yeah," Lorelei replied, "But that part was kind of weird...I mean, a little toy cat helping save the world and all? You just don't see that every day."  
  
"Men with red eyes and metal limbs are far more common, I suppose?"  
  
"I've seen more of those than I've seen kitty-bots."  
  
"...At any rate, Cait Sith was the invention of Reeve; the one Shinra executive who seemed to have any concern for the people of Midgar. By no means was Reeve a perfect man. Often, he allowed himself to become a slave to his situation, as he did when he gave the Keystone to the enemies of our company...but by and large, his heart was true. He felt distanced from the rest of us, as his only connection to the party was through Cait, his robotic creation. So, too, did he feel inadequate, believing that what he had done to aid us took no bravery. He did not put his life on the line by charging into battle himself...he left that to a toy he had given some parody of life. Reeve was to face a battle far worse than the one we fought.  
  
"After the threat of meteor was banished, the gangs that had hidden in Midgar's slums believed that, with Shinra toppled, their time had come to rule the city. The crime rate soared to an impossible level. Those not killed fighting for one gang or another were all too often slaughtered in the crossfire. The only law that reigned on those streets was that of power. Whatever a person could find a way to take, belonged to him.  
  
"Reeve took it upon himself to try and save the city. Few seemed to care that he existed, and even fewer seemed at all swayed by any words he said. Scarcely any of Shinra's old security forces were willing to follow his command. Most of those guards had either been killed, or had fled to some calmer city, fearing for their lives. Only in those who had been our enemies, did Reeve find any support.  
  
"The TURKs were one of Shinra's most elite teams...Long ago, I was a part of that group myself...and in the aftermath of Sephiroth's defeat, the three surviving TURKs, Reno, Rude, and Elena, were some of the few souls that chose to stay by Reeve's side. They commanded some respect, or at least fear, in the slums of Midgar, and, with their aid, Reeve managed to make some progress. Workers were gathered together to begin demolishing the plates that kept the sun from the slums, and building better housing in the original villages. Ever-so-slowly, progress was made. Reeve spent every bit of treasure he had gathered through Cait Sith trying to infuse the city with life, and would likely have neglected himself altogether, if not for Elena.   
  
"Elena was the lowest-ranking of the TURKs, and the only woman. It was she who had convinced the others that helping Reeve would be worthwhile, and it was she who cared for Reeve. She always made certain he did not skip meals, that he slept, and that he stayed in reasonable health. The two got along well, indeed, and before long, were married in a quiet, efficient little ceremony. Both returned to work the next day. Elena told her new husband that, if they chose to take a honeymoon, he would only spend his time worrying about the city. So Reeve promised her that, as soon as the city was back in order, he would have a new leader chosen, and simply retire.   
  
"Change came with all the speed of a moss-covered stone. Where the TURKs and their hastily-assembled peacekeeping forces were, the city became hushed, but that peace proved only to be the calm before the storm. Only tiny sections of the rebuilt city remained safe. Gang wars waged on. Midgar's people still lived in fear. In his desperation, Reeve called for the aid of his old friends, of the company that had erased the threat of meteor. Most only sent money. They had their own lives to live, they told him. At first, I did nothing whatever to aid him, save for acting as a sounding board.  
  
"Finally, after Reeve's tenth year trying to save Midgar, Elena paid me a visit. She berated me, told me that I had forgotten what it meant to be a TURK. I was called an apathetic coward for abandoning a friend as I had abandoned Reeve. She feared an all-out revolt; the people were outraged with Reeve's seeming lack of progress. I went back to Midgar with Elena, to aid Reeve in what even he believed would be his last stand.  
  
"We were literally moments too late. I saw Reeve standing atop a pile of rubble that had once been one of the new housing projects he spoke of with such pride. Reno and Rude stood at his either side, already crouched for a fight, their eyes steeled with the courage that comes from knowing that death will find you before the day is through. The crowd was gathered around the little mound, roaring like the sea with a thousand cries of rage. Reeve's hair was gray, his face etched and marred by years of worry, but in his eyes there was only determination and grief. He loved Midgar, and all of its people; saw building and person alike as his children, and hated to see them at war.  
  
'My friends!' he called out, his voice somehow rising above the crowd, 'My friends! I beg of you, still your rage! I fear I have no time for a great speech...I must only tell you that I truly believe that, if we can set aside our grudges, truly, we can see this city reborn!'  
  
The angry, mocking cries that came as the crowd's reply were almost deafening. It was all I could do to hold Elena back, and keep her from rushing into the mass of fury to try in vain to reach her husband's side.   
  
'I have been the servant of each man here,' Reeve said, his voice raised once more, though his tone now held only weariness and defeat, 'If you think me a failure, and an abomination...I only pray that my blood will be the thing to unite you.'  
  
"The crowd became an angry tide of guns, and knives, and chains. It engulfed the three figures on the rock. Reno and Rude fought valiantly, holding the army back for several minutes. Reeve refused to raise a hand against his people; he was the first truly benevolent king this world has ever known. He would not stop the revolt of the masses to save his own life, not if it meant that the blood of even one of his subjects would be on his hands. The two warriors who stood by him could only hold out for so long. I lost my grip on Elena, and she submerged herself in the riot, vengeance in her eyes.  
  
"To my knowledge, all four of them were killed. I cannot say for certain, for the remains the crowd left could never have been identified. The blood wasn't enough to quench the mob's rage. It went on for fifteen days, and left Midgar in ruins. To this day, I do not know how I left that forsaken city alive. There were few who did. Midgar was soon abandoned; even by dying, Reeve could not save it. The blood of a noble martyr, it seemed, was not worth so much as it once was.  
  
"Perhaps things would have been different, had Elena arrived sooner. Perhaps the only thing accomplished would have been that the last of the TURKs died together. Perhaps it would have been better that way.  
  
"An old proverb says that even the greatest of lions cannot triumph if a million rats stand against him. Midgar was too great a challenge even for Reeve, but he refused to admit defeat. He spent the final years of his life fighting an uphill battle, grasping at straws as tightly as he could. He died trying. I cannot say if that is a thing to be admired. I see little difference between one death and another. Reeve's love for that city destroyed him...but I heard his voice, and looked into his eyes. He had no regrets.  
  
"For that, I envy him."  
  
"So you've gathered a few regrets?" Lorelei asked, silently kicking herself for asking such a thing.  
  
"...Do you truly believe I would be in the basement of this mansion if I had none?"   
  
"Well, you don't exactly seem the type to lounge on some beach in Costa del Sol...but point taken."  
  
"The story seemed hardly to affect you, this time."  
  
"Maybe I'm getting used to you."  
  
"And maybe you are simply too overmedicated to be at all in touch with your emotions."  
  
"So is that how you do it, Vincent?"  
  
"...touche`."  
  
"Welp, now that we're tied, so far as the arguments where we kept score, and I've eaten that overly-mustarded sandwich, I guess it's time for me to get back to what made me sore in the first place."  
  
"The sheer volume of non-words you know is incredible..."  
  
"Careful, or I'll just start making crap up without even trying to form it from discernible words."  
  
"Indeed...I suppose I should keep you occupied before you invent your own language, and expect me to understand it..."  
  
***  
  
When Lorelei arrived at home, she saw, in the dwindling light of evening, that the letter from New Hill Family Services had been taped to her front door. She resisted the temptation to simply use it for a bit more target practice, and elected, instead, to climb up the drainpipe and enter her house through her bedroom window.   
  
Then, at least, she could say she had not gone in through the front door, and would have an excuse for not taking the letter. She knew that ignoring the letter would do little to solve the problem of its existence; but at least it could buy her some time in which she did not have to deal with it.  
  
It could buy her time, until her brother returned. 


	4. The Cradle was Bare

Conversations with Lorelei

Author's Note: No...I'm not dead. One catastrophe after another, however, kept me from getting this up sooner. Included in this list are the breakdown of the computer I had it saved on, the flooding of my basement, and the refusal of my college internet to work. So...yeah. Here it is. Please don't hate me too much.

At any rate, this focuses on Barret, and continues the story of Cloud's daughter, as well. I think that I've gotten far enough by now that I don't need to write a disclaimer, so without further ado, onto the story.

The Cradle was Bare

When Lorelei made her way to the kitchen, that morning, she fully intended to find something at least marginally nutritious to have for breakfast.

"Well, that figures..." she muttered, as she opened the refrigerator, "The one time I try to care about what I eat, and everything's gone."

She looked up at the ceiling, spreading her hands in a shrug.

"Is this some kind of sign?" she asked, "God, or whoever...do you really mean for me to live on sugar? Is Vincent the devil incarnate trying to make me drink milk and eat mustard?"

The girl waited, holding the pose for a few moments as though honestly expecting an answer.

"Well, yeah, I guess that's fair," she grumbled at last, walking over to the door and slipping into a pair of battered tennis shoes, "If I wanted a quick, straight answer, I should've asked one of those eight-ball things."

She pried one of the floorboards up, taking out an old tin lunchbox, the design long ago worn off of its sides. She shook it, and sighed a bit at the rattle. It was where she kept her secret stash of gil, but from the sound of things, she hadn't remembered to stash away nearly enough.

Still dressed in her pajamas, her blonde hair by now more matted than tangled, a pair of oversized, unlaced shoes on her feet, and a few gill in the lunchbox she swung, Lorelei opened her door and walked out onto the main street of Nibleheim. If she was at all aware of how utterly ridiculous her appearance was, she concealed it well, indeed. For once, the stares of the small town's people did not quite manage to bother her. She made her way to the market, seemingly oblivious of what others might think.

Perhaps she had come beyond that point.

...Or perhaps she was simply too tired and hungry to care.

As Lorelei made her way to the Shinra mansion later that day, she swore under her breath with every step. Not only had she found it fairly difficult to carry her groceries home, but her entire secret savings had bought only enough food, she estimated, to last around three days.

'Oh well...'she told herself, though her attempt at optimism seemed disturbingly strained, even to her, 'Ian should be back, by then.'

She nervously fingered the gun holster hidden under her baggy sweatshirt, but found that the gesture actually managed to put her even further from being at ease.

"Why did I bring that thing to the market, anyway?" she murmured to herself, "I mean...it was just a little walk across town. I've walked there a hundred times, and nothing's ever happened. What on earth possessed me to wear that gun? If Mr. Terrings found it, I'd be in some serious trouble..."

The girl chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, looking back on her actions the past several days. What would her brother think of her walking right into the Shinra mansion? It was true that Ian had never forbidden her from entering the ancient building. Indeed, few of the parents in Nibleheim bothered to place that restriction on their children; it was simply assumed that anyone at all would know better than to open those heavy, rusted-iron gates. And what would Ian say about her going back to the mansion, and learning to use a weapon? The most strictly-enforced rule he had ever placed upon his sister was an order to avoid fights with others entirely. Did hunting the ghosts and monsters in the mansion, using them for target practice, count as breaking that rule?

Her steps became more hesitant, as she drew closer to the mansion. She stared at the overgrown weeds below her feet, and started when she heard the hoarse cry of one of the ravens.

"Just what the hell do I think I'm doing?!" she asked herself aloud, even as she stepped up to the door.

She leapt back a full six inches when the door opened.

"Whatever the answer to that question may be...you are late..." Vincent's voice told her, "Now, I suggest you come in, and keep me from having to hold this open for the rest of the day..."

Lorelei swallowed hard. She obeyed Vincent's command, walking across the threshold, and peering around at him. The black-haired man was mostly-hidden behind the open door, and closed it in a way that kept him from the sights of anyone who might have been outside.

Somehow, the pale man who seemed to move all too easily in the shadows unnerved her far more than the first time she had seen him. He seemed more foreign to her, now, as he closed the door, blocking out the sunlit world; the silence of his footsteps was enough to awaken fears that had previously been dormant.

"Miss Calldrick?" he inquired, his tone almost bored, no surprise in his crimson eyes as he looked to her, "Would I be correct in assuming I frighten you?"

"N-no," she said, unconvincingly, "Of course not, Vincent. I just-"

"...I see..." he responded, his tone unreadable, "Very well, then....You may return the pistol I lent you, and leave at once..."

"...you could at least sound a little disappointed," Lorelei said softly, pouting a bit.

"After what I have told you, do you honestly believe the simple absence of an uninvited guest can possibly shake me?" he asked, his voice smooth and cold.

"I-I guess not..." she said, staring down at the floorboards.

"...Well?"

The girl glanced up to see him holding out his hand, palm-up, his face as much a stoic mask as it had ever been. Her own hand seemed somehow heavy, as she reached for the gun, unclipping the holster from her belt and placing it in Vincent's outstretched hand. Her movements were slow and painstaking; she did not want to risk touching his skin, even by accident.

Without a word, Vincent began to walk away, doubtless back toward the staircase that would bring him to the mansion's basement.

Lorelei stood there awkwardly, for several moments, simply looking from the man's retreating figure to the door.

"Aren't you even going to say goodbye?!" she demanded at last.

"I see little reason to," he replied, without turning to face her, "You are leaving this place, and do not seem to plan on returning. I will remain here, and do not plan on leaving. I should think the farewell was implied."

"Maybe it is, but that...that just isn't the way you're supposed to do things!" she protested.

"This place belongs to me...or perhaps I belong to it...while I am behind these walls, I will do as I please. You are capable of several things, Miss Calldrick. Inspiring me to follow your orders is not to be counted in that number."

"It isn't polite not to say goodbye!"

"Nor is it considered courteous to make demands of one's elders."

Only when Vincent was out of sight, vanished once more into the shadows of the mansion, did Lorelei begin to run in the direction he had gone.

"Wait! Wait a minute!" she called out, "I didn't mean to say all that-or, well, I didn't mean to think it, and have you nigh-well pick it out of my brain! I just...I'm confused, is all!"

Lorelei gave a bit of a startled cry when she felt a light tap on her shoulder, and wheeled around to see Vincent behind her. He dropped the pistol at her feet, and took a step back.

"Gather your thoughts quickly," he told her, "For once, I have little time for your indecision."

"You don't have time?" the girl asked, puzzled, "What's that supposed to-"

"It means what I have said," the black-haired man interrupted, "If you plan to leave, the matter is none of your concern. If you plan to stay, haste is needed."

"You expect me to make a decision like this all at once?" Lorelei half-demanded, half-whined.

The cold look Vincent gave her could have been a backhanded slap, the way it made her wince.

"It is impossible to have 'enough time' to make any decision, Miss Calldrick, and always far too much time to regret the outcome. Life is a study in taking blind leaps across perilous chasms, if one ever intends to get anything done."

She bit her lip, wondering what sort of insanity had taken hold of her, and picked up the gun, clipping the holster to her belt once more.

"...You are more of a fool than I thought," Vincent said, even as he turned and quickly strode toward the staircase once more, "Perhaps you will be an asset, after all."

"Um...Vincent..." Lorelei began, jogging to keep up with Vincent's long-legged strides, "What exactly did I just get myself into?"

"If I tell you, the knowledge will only get in your way," he told her, quickly starting down the rickety, wooden steps, "Knowing your enemy is often an advantage...but occasionally, it is better not to know what you face."

"So pretty much," she surmised, "Whatever we're going to try to kill is way out of my league, but you want me to think I have a chance."

"Well...yes....those were my intentions..." he admitted.

"No worries," she grinned, waving a hand to dismiss any disappointment he might have found at, for once, having his plan so plainly read, "I try doing stuff I know I can't do all the time. Just last month I broke my ankle jumping off the roof and trying to fly."

"...I do not know whether I should be discouraged or heartened by that..."

"It's a good thing. If I didn't do insanely stupid stuff, I wouldn't have ever come here."

"Yet you ask me to see this in a positive light?"

"Whatever's going on sure makes you cranky," Lorelei observed.

As they reached the bottom of the staircase, Vincent turned to her.

"You would be in a mood no better than mine, had you awakened as I have."

He paused for a moment, and a hint of doubt and worry seemed to come to his crimson eyes.

"You have made great progress, in these past days...but you are still very much a novice..."

"Oh, come on..." she said, scoffing, "I'll be fine. If my utter lack of wisdom hasn't killed me yet, I doubt it ever will. Besides...so what if it does? It's not like you have anything to lose"

"Perhaps the wisest statement you have yet made," he observed, stopping before the door to the room that held his coffin.

"In there?" Lorelei said, glancing around him, despite the fact that the door was closed, and she knew, full well she would be unable to see inside, "Great! Let's get to it!"

She backed up several steps, nearly tripping over her own feet. She had been on the receiving end of Vincent's cold glares before, but never had his crimson eyes seemed to hold as much frigid anger as they did in that moment. She opened her mouth to scream, but could find no voice, as he drew his own weapon, and leveled it at her chest.

She knew the black-haired man never had the safety on.

"This is no game, little girl..." he told her, his voice not raised in the least, but making her tremble, nonetheless, "In that room...is a ghost beyond all you have seen in this place...the restless soul of a great warrior. He is our enemy now, but was not always so...You will regard him with respect, or you will leave this moment, to return only on pain of death..."

"I-I'll be good," the girl murmured, still wincing.

"Then prepare yourself," he said simply, turning from her and swinging the door open.

Lorelei thought, for a moment, that she was hearing a rather hyperactive echo. Gunshots burst through the air, impossibly fast, and it was not until she saw a half-dozen bullets clatter to the ground near her in the space of a few seconds, and then simply fade away, that she realized that this was a fight in which distance was not to her advantage.

Vincent had ducked into a roll that carried him, smoothly, to the other side of the room, giving Lorelei her first look at their opponent.

The figure was taller than Vincent by a full three inches, and much more thickly-built, his muscles bulging, stretching coffee-colored skin that looked all too real. One shoulder seemed locked in place, his other arm helping to brace whatever weapon he held in front of him. It seemed, for all the world, as though he must be holding a machine gun, judging from continual rattle of fire. Only every several moments did she manage to spot Vincent, and then he was only a flash of scarlet and black, somehow managing to dodge the ghost's fire.

Swallowing against a lump in her throat, her stomach churning, the girl raised her own pistol with trembling hands, clicking the safety off, aiming, as best she could, between the shoulder blades of what looked far, far too much like a living man, closing her eyes, and pulling the trigger.

The shot missed its mark entirely, streaking through the air and grazing Vincent's cheek. It was enough, however, to make the ghost turn on its heel, and, as Lorelei's blue eyes opened, she saw that there was, indeed, a sort of machine gun involved; it was attached to her opponent's arm in a fashion reminiscent of her mentor's claw. Where its eyes should have been in the ghost's broad, hardened face was only a blank, blinding glow, glinting off of the few gold chains around its thick neck.

The rattling shots came again, and her scream, this time, found a voice, as she felt agony rush through her left arm, the Quicksilver pistol clattering to the ground, even as the girl fell beside it, tears streaming down her face. A dark stain was quickly spreading on the sleeve of her sweatshirt, her cries turning weak and mewling, the whole of her body writhing in pain.

Perhaps she only imagined seeing the figure of her adversary lower his weapon, the blinding glow leaving him, replaced dark, soulful, horror-struck eyes. Perhaps she only imagined hearing him speak.

"I-I didn' mean...!"

The figure faded away, along with the rest of the world, and all the girl could hear were a few strange words spoken in Vincent's smooth, quiet voice...

She awakened with velvet against her cheek, lying on her right side, her left arm still throbbing. The girl didn't bother trying to move or open her eyes, just then.

"Vincent," she groggily murmured, "Why am I in a coffin when what I did wasn't caused by my own stupidity?"

"It wasn't?" his calm voice inquired, "...then I must ask...what caused your injury?"

"The ghost shot me. Duh," she said irritably.

"...and why did it do that?"

"Because I was fighting it."

"...and what made you think you could fight a ghost, Miss Calldrick?"

"The hell?! _You _told me I could!"

"...and just how did you meet me in the first place?"

"You've got to be kidding me...I came in here and met you."

"...and why did you decide to come into a haunted mansion?"

"...because I'm stupid..."

"It is good to see that you can, at least, be led to logical conclusions," he commented, his voice entirely lacking expression.

"Yeah, yeah, live it up," she said, groaning a bit, as she sat up, "Dammit, that hurt! Why did I do it?"

"...must we really go through that again?"

She gave him an expression somewhere between a pout and a glare.

"You're only getting away with that because I feel bad for shooting you," she muttered.

"And well you should...Shooting Barret's ghost at nearly point-blank range, while he had his back turned, should not have been a difficult task..." Vincent told her, seeming to be entirely serious.

"It wasn't that," the girl said, bowing her head, "He just...he _looked _like a person! The rest of the ghosts weren't like that...how am I supposed to just shoot somebody?"

The black-haired man turned away, at that, and silence reigned for a long while.

"...you deserve a bit of credit," he said at length, "For using a tactic I would never have been able to...it was you, after all, who banished his spirit..."

The girl looked distinctly confused, which seemed to allow the gunman to regain his composure.

"I...suppose I will have to explain why seeing you hurt...played upon one of Barret's weaknesses..."

Lorelei grinned.

"Yay, story time!"

"You grow more irreverent with every passing day..."

"Yep! Part of being a teenager; rebel against everything, write bad poetry...pretty soon I'll prob'ly start thinking about getting tattooed or pierced or something. I'm thinking of maybe getting a gold chocobo on my back. I hear it's good luck-"

"...may I continue, or shall I get a book to read until you've finished...?"

"Did anyone ever tell you you're a really bad listener?"

"No...but I have seldom been subjected to lectures on planned voluntary scarification."

"See, that's the trouble with you. You take fun stuff and make it sound all icky."

"Consider it payback, as the novelty of sleeping in a coffin seems not to impress you..."

"...so yeah," she said, rubbing the back of her neck with her right hand, "How 'bout that story?"

"Yes..." he murmured, with the slightest nod, "Where to begin...?

"Every man, however well trained, has a weakness; with many, the harder they train, the closer they come to having a body made of stone....the softer their hearts become. Barret Wallace was such a man. Before what history mistakenly called our great adventure, he took in Marlene, the daughter of a friend he believed to be deceased, raising her as his own. When Tifa met her own inglorious end, with Cloud's whereabouts unknown, Barret made Naomi Strife his second daughter.

"The arrangement worked almost perfectly for many years. Marlene enjoyed having a 'little sister', and raising Naomi seemed to lessen Barret's grief at the loss of a long-time friend and comrade. How strange it is that a man so efficient, who let himself become the epitome of a killing machine, who made a weapon of his body, could not bear to be away from a pair of little girls. How strange that a man once branded a terrorist was happiest nurturing children who were not even of his own blood...Strange, but true. I cannot say whether his path was right, in the end.

"Time marched along, and, in its cruelty, offered opportunity beyond imagining. Marlene, Naomi's elder by ten years, was given the opportunity to attend a training-school, at eighteen. She wished to become a teacher...such a simple dream. But simple dreams, the most natural, noble urgings of the human heart, are those that fate seems so intent on shattering. Naomi was told little of her father, and though, on those occasions when he returned, she forgave him outwardly, at no point in her life did she seem to lose track of some subconscious demon's voice--that demon, perhaps, being Truth--that told her she had been abandoned, betrayed, and that she must never let it happen again.

"I did not see what happened on the night before Marlene was to depart. My only knowledge of it comes from the testament of one broken witness, but this much I know...Marlene was found in her bed, her throat and wrists inexpertly-but effectively-cut....a life cut short...It was more than Barret could stand. Naomi was nowhere to be found...perhaps it is better that the she never met her surrogate father again. I...do not know what he might have done, had he found her. Barret came to this place...I believe he thought I would be able to offer some comfort to him..."

He looked to the girl, then, his look almost readable as an appraising one, as though he were trying to judge just what assumptions she might make.

"Go on," Lorelei urged him simply, trying to keep her own expression neutral, though the silent questions of a man in such straits would go to Vincent for support, as well as to what degree the red-eyed man was capable of such things slipped into her mind.

"He hung himself three days later," the gunman before her said simply, calmly, though the faintest hint of a relieved tone graced his satiny voice, "In this room..."  
  
"Oh...great," the girl stated, looking to the man with raised eyebrows, "And you chose not to, y'know, move your stuff to another room, because...?"

"Locations matter little..." he replied, looking over her to a stretch of blank wall as though gazing thoughtfully out of a window, "The knowledge of his death would be no less prominent in any other room, any other place on the Planet...This is the mistake too many make, and too few recognize...Barret came here knowing, in his heart, that I am not the sort equipped to sooth the grief of loss...he came here trying to distance himself from that loss...and could not. Grief, above all things, is a constant companion. The temporal manifestations of our sorrows-- a room where some last breath was taken, a monument that stands in some quiet place in a loved one's stead, a wilted rose, a tarnished band of gold-- are not the causes of our grief, nor even the primary reminders. Our sorrow clings to us, more constant than the tide, attached like some parasite to our very souls... However we try to forget, we cannot. Why, then, would I lie to myself, and say that by leaving this room, by boarding it up and never returning, I would ease the pain? No... if I must drink a poison of the soul, I prefer not to disguise its bitterness by dilution..."

"You're forgetting something, though," she murmured.

"...am I?"

"Yeah; poisons don't always kill you."

His eyes were on her once more, something behind them the girl couldn't quite identify, but knew she had not seen in them before.

"...Give me your weapon, Miss Calldrick," he said simply, holding out his hand.

"B-but I didn't do anything wrong!" she protested.

He only looked at her, his hand still out, and, begrudgingly, the girl took the pistol from its holster at her belt, giving it up for the second time that day, and for the second time both surprised and disturbed at the sense of loss it brought her.

Vincent turned his back, a slight, strange click sounding, before he turned smoothly once more, dropping the gun--now augmented by an orb of glowing green on the butt of the weapon--into her lap.

"Ice materia," he said matter-of-factly, "...this particular or is as fresh and in experienced as its new mistress...it is, perhaps, less appealing than fire, but far easier to control...Now lay your weapon aside, and repeat after me..."

When Lorelei returned home that night, she was too tired to even notice that she stepped on an envelope that lay on the floor, just inside the front door, as though it had been slipped under it. She did not notice that it bore the logo of New Hill Family Services.

"Some piece of me," she muttered, flopping down on a battered old armchair, rubbing her still-throbbing left arm, "Some part of my soul, or whatnot, is very winded right now. Grr, I don't like magic..."

She had thought, initially, that giving her the materia orb was Vincent's way of continuing her training without overtaxing her. She had thought he had, uncharacteristically, taken the events of that morning into consideration, and decided to go easy on her. She had been quite wrong. The girl was exhausted in a way she hardly understood; a sense of weariness seemed to flow from her brain to her heart like lukewarm liquid, and she was quite certain her first experience using magic was to blame. More frustrating, still, was the fact that her spell actually seemed to do less damage than her bullets.

"Sometimes, Vincent, I think you're just trying to get rid of me..." she murmured, her blue eye closing.

As she drifted off to sleep, her thoughts turned to the gunman's newest tale; to the loose ends of Naomi Strife, who had disappeared, so much like her father had.

"Hero or not, Cloud was no great dad, it sounds like..." she reflected to the empty room, "Glad I never had to deal with mine."

The envelope still lay near the threshold, a shoe-print seeming to cover all except the blood-red logo in the upper-left corner.


	5. Heart of Icarus

Conversations with Lorelei

Chapter 4- Heart of Icarus

A/N: My thanks, once more, to all those who review, and convince me that it's worthwhile to continue this despite my insane college schedule. (And what has our intrepid authoress learned after her first semester of college? Not to take nineteen credits. Yes, I said nineteen. I am a bloody moron.)

This chapter will give the tale of Cid's death, and will be followed by chapters on Lucretia (sort of), Cloud, RedXIII, and Yuffie, finishing with an epilogue. What I would like to know from those of you who have been following the series is whether you'd like to see chapters on anyone else. Some people may ask why I don't yet plan a chapter on Aeris, and the answer is pretty much because she was already dead by the end of the game, and I don't think she was quite as important to Vincent as Lucretia was. If asked by several people, I will do a chapter on her, and I'm willing to consider chapters for other characters, as well. I would prefer that those suggestions come in sooner rather than later, as the only place I could logically put them, given my future plans for the story, is before Cloud's part. You can either give your suggestions in your reviews, or e-mail them to ) with the subject "Lorelei's Mailbag". Corny as this sounds, this subject is designed to help me tell your message from the thousand spam-tastic pieces of junk I get every day.

Also, as added incentive for those who seem to like this story, if, by the time it is complete, it has over sixty reviews, I'll write a sequel. (With the ending I've planned…you just may want it.) So tell your friends to read and review!

With all of that said, please enjoy.

* * *

"God…damn…stupid sun…" Lorelei groaned, groggily bringing her arm up over her eyes as the pure, golden light of morning streamed through the drapes she had left open, "It's October; you should be shunning us, by now. It should be cold, gray, drizzly, and otherwise befitting of making normal people unhappy!"

She imagined, for a moment, that the traces of light that cheerfully lit the room were something specifically intended to spite her. After all, years ago, Ian had found that the best way to awaken his sister was to use a small mirror to reflect the rays of the sun so they would be perfectly aligned to assault the sleeping girl's eyes. For a full five minutes, she tossed about, trying to find some way to dodge the insistent light, until she finally gave up, and forced herself to get off of the armchair she had fallen asleep in the night before, and walk, stiff-legged, to the kitchen. It was mostly by chance that, as she made her way to the refrigerator, the little calendar on the wall caught her eye.

"Okay, I'm crazy…" she concluded, scratching her head and staring at the space that she had marked with yellow highlighter and red crayon, "It is both October, and Friday the thirteenth. And oddly enough, either I or an evil twin I don't know about who has my exact handwriting has marked it as Valentine's Day. This can't be a good sign."

She went on with her preparations, then, putting on a pot of coffee in hopes of gaining some semblance of consciousness, but it was only as she was rummaging through the cupboard to remind herself of what meager supplies she had purchased the day before that memory struck her. The girl moved back to the calendar, then, determined to look at the day she had marked--

"Ouch!" she exclaimed, promptly hitting her head on the cupboard's open door before changing course, "Yeah, that was smooth."

She looked at the calendar more closely, now; and saw the little mark she had left on Tuesday, the tenth. That was the day she had first heard one of Vincent's stories, the day when he had disclosed his age, and told her it was soon to change.

"I'll be damned," she murmured, "It's his birthday. Well, there's just one thing for it, then…"

* * *

Lorelei couldn't quite tell whether the look in Vincent's eyes was one of shock or annoyance. 

"…what is the meaning of this…?" he asked, his tone unnervingly even.

"It's a birthday cake," she smiled, nodding to the vaguely-circular mass on the plate she had set on the table. It was covered, rather unevenly, with pink icing, an altogether ridiculous amount of multi-colored sprinkles laying here and there on the top, "I made it."

"I…can tell…" he murmured, eying it warily, as though believing it might attack him at any moment, "…why is it pink?"

"Well, I was going to make the frosting red, but I didn't have enough food coloring," she cheerily shrugged.

"…and why have you done this?"

"Well, duh," she said, rolling her eyes, "When you told me Tifa's story, you said your birthday was in three days, so that's today. I may not be very smart, but I've got a handle on basic math most of the time."

The gunman offered no reply, merely staring at the sugary mass.

Lorelei awkwardly shifted her feet, silence reigning for a long while. She had expected his reaction to be a bit easier to read, for better or worse.

"Um…you should have a piece," she said at last, amazed at just how much she sounded like a child.

"Miss Calldrick…" he said, and for once, she got the impression that the black-haired man was having difficulty finding words for what he wanted to say, "You are truly…impossible."

"Really?" she asked with a smile, "In what sense of the word?"

"…all of them…"

"Thanks," the girl laughed.

"And what," he asked, his voice perfectly even, "Makes you think I meant that as a compliment?"

"'cause," she replied, her look more than a little smug, "If you meant it as an insult, it wouldn't've taken you so long to figure out how to say it."

Again, he offered her only an inarticulate silence as reply, and the girl was left to anxiously tug at the end of her matted ponytail. Even when Vincent crossed the room, taking a key from a pocket inside his scarlet coat and unlocking a cabinet, she had no inkling of what to expect.

She could not have been more surprised when he set two undecorated, bone-china plates on the table, placing a long kitchen knife between them. Had he seemed one bit less intimidating than usual, the girl thought, she would have been forced to hug him. Even his cold, severe look, however, could not stop her from jumping up and down, for a few moments.

"…are you quite finished?"

"Yup, she replied, anything but calmly. The girl reached for the knife, then, pausing when her host quietly cleared his throat.

"Given the…expertise… you have previously shown regarding blades…perhaps it would be less of a risk for me to do this."

"Fair 'nough," Lorelei relented, taking a little half-step back, though her smile didn't even begin to fade.

When a slice had been placed on each china plate, it took Lorelei several moments to realize that Vincent's crimson eyes were focused on her.

"…well?" he inquired, gesturing to the plate and tarnished fork set beside it.

"You should be the one going first," she told him, "It's your birthday, not mine."

"I assure you, Miss Calldrick…ceremony has nothing to do with this…"

"And do I even want to ask what does?"

The black-haired man seemed to pause for a moment, once more, turning so she could no longer meet his eyes.

"Pragmatism…" he replied, his tone as effortlessly ambiguous as always, "Upon consideration of our discussion yesterday, it occurs to me that… you may be trying to poison me…"

"'kay," she answered simply, taking a bit of it, and then looking to him expectantly.

He favored her with another unreadable look before speaking.

"Turn away," he said calmly.

"Um…the hell?" she asked, blinking confusedly at him.

"Do as I say," was the only reply he offered, his tone stern and cold as ever.

"I'd say I'm just humoring you because it's your birthday, but now that I think about it, most of what you do when you're not acting like you're part of a gothic novel involves ordering me around, so…"

"Just turn around…"

She complied with his order, scraping the frosting off of her own piece. She always saved it for last.

"Hey, Vincent," she began after several moments' silence, "I have a question."

"And I have found few methods to keep you from speaking when you wish to, Miss Calldrick."

"Why do you keep your mouth covered all the time? I mean, I figure it's partially to keep people from being able to tell what you feel, except that you had it covered before I came here, and I don't see why you'd care if the ghosts-"

"…Enough…"

"Right," she said, with a little disappointed sigh. The girl's curiosity seemed to catch up with her, then, and she looked over her shoulder. The sheer chill of the glare she received made her turn away again immediately, and take a step away.

"…I suppose you anticipate another story like the rest…" the gunman said at last, setting an empty plate down on the table.

"I guess," she told him, her tone a bit on the wary side, not letting herself seriously consider moving an inch from her spot, "But only if you want."

"Well," he continued, his voice becoming ever-so-slightly muffled halfway through his statement, as he fastened his high collar once more, "I…cannot oblige. I have, until now, told you of sickness, of uprising, of suicide and despair…but the next of my old comrades did not die as those others did. He showed no weakness, no desire for martyrdom, no need of escape…he died as no other could, even in the same circumstances…"

"Wow," the girl said, raising her eyebrows, no longer able to maintain her caution. She turned around to give the gunman a look that seemed born of both worry and amazement. "Are you feeling okay, Vincent? Because for you, that was downright fluffy-sugary-chipper."

"Once again, your choice of words is both unique and entirely ludicrous."

"Well sorry," she said, "But seriously…that little lead-in was nowhere near your usual gloomy, angst-filled intros."

"If I am at all unwell, Miss Calldrick, the only probable cause is your culinary skills or lack thereof."

"Hey, hey! I may not be a five-star chef, but my cooking does NOT turn people insane. I mean, come on, I've been cooking for my brother and me for the last two years!"

Vincent said nothing, merely looking to her with one arched eyebrow.

"Okay," she muttered, "Bad example…"

"May I continue?"

"Please do. Talking really doesn't do me much good, nope…"

"I assume that history has not fallen so low as to forget the name Cid Highwind?"

"You kidding?" the girl scoffed, "There's like…four towns named after him, and I've wanted to go to Highwind Institute of Technology like…my whole life! He was the only guy in history that ever got into space!"

"Others were with him…" the black-haired man said, his shoulders moving in the slightest hint of a shrug, "But…I am glad the historians pay little heed to that. Cid deserves the credit, as the others were there from simple coincidence…"

"Saving the world together is 'simple coincidence'?" the girl asked, "Puts a whole new perspective on all those stories about couples meeting at summer camp."

Vincent did not reply to her statement, merely waiting for her to finish before continuing.

"In the course of our journey, we learned that there was a plan to use the old rocket, the rusting icon of Cid's dream, to destroy the last falling star the Planet would ever wish upon…I trust you know the rest of the story, or at least its basics?"

"Yeah," Lorelei nodded, "Everyone like…went to get a bunch of materia that was strapped to the rocket, because that one big corporation was trying to use it to blow up a huge meteor some psychopathic alien was going to throw at the Planet- I saw a painting of that guy, once, and except for the weird bangs, he didn't look much like an alien…kinda hot, though- and anyway, they ended up getting stuck on the rocket, and they managed to not get blown up, and damn I should've paid better attention when I was reading that book instead of just looking at the schematics and stuff."

"That…is sufficient…" Vincent told her, "You can, perhaps, become more acquainted with the details later…that you know of the incident is enough.  
"In the years after our battle with Sephiroth, it became clear to many of us that the height of our glory had come and gone. Most accepted that, even took active steps to lead a quiet life…we had seen what costs such glory could entail. I reserve judgment in most cases of worth…but I will say that we who tried to fade into the background were certainly the cowards of the bunch… myself, in particular. I did all I could to melt into the shadows and be lost in the dust of the past, emerging only rarely, and then only when called…For that, I have my reasons.

"Cid, however, was not content to close his chapter in history. Though he had to start from scratch, though mako energy was gone and the Planet entered an era of technological decline…he was determined to be among the stars once more. He had help, at first…youths eager to gain bragging rights of their own, thinking they would ride to fame on his coat-tails. But as the years passed with no clear progress, fewer and fewer were willing to attach themselves to what seemed a hopeless dream, particularly as Cid's share of the money we had gained in our venture dwindled, and he was able to pay less and less. Finally, only Shera, the most faithful of his assistants, remained to aid him. The work came nearly to a standstill, and all we who were left believed that his efforts were futile. I personally did nothing, thinking that realization, despair, and at last resignation would all come in their natural season, and I knew well enough that some things are better left to nature. Some of the others offered him comfort or even assistance, hoping to persuade him, gradually, to let go of too high an aim.

"Their efforts were defeated by his determination, one and all. As the years passed, Cid continued his work, his dedication-or perhaps desperation- seeming to grow every time he was told he should stop. In this world's history, there are no shortage of stubborn fools…men will often cling to something hopeless, sometimes simply to avoid admitting they were wrong… seldom, however, do they achieve their hopeless dreams. Cid finished a second rocket, one that seemed better than the first. Even Shera, a woman insistent upon checking things time and again, could find no flaw in it. He invited all we who were left to watch the launch, and, the lot of us astounded, we went.

"The sun was at just the wrong angle, that day, its glare assaulting my eyes, making them sting as I watched my old comrade ascend into the sky, and so I did not notice, at first, that disaster was about to strike. It was many moments before I saw a patch of metal at the rocket's side seem to fold in on itself; I noticed it only as Shera shouted into the radio for Cid to eject, but he gave no response just then, and before my eyes the rocket began to shake apart, and then it was all aflame, crimson and blue flashes trying with all there might to rival the brightness of the sun. I could almost imagine, as the contraption tore itself apart in last reaches of the skies, that I could see an old bomber jacket set alight. And still the sun beamed down, as though trying to use its power to shield my eyes from the truth of the situation, the knowledge that one of my former companions had died. It needn't have bothered.

"I did not join the others in their weeping. In truth…for one of very few times in my life…I felt compelled to smile. For Cid Highwind had died in a blaze of glory, the last communication he gave, cracked with static though it was, was a cry of victory. He had known the pleasure of touching the sky once more, of coming close enough to touch the sun, and the wax of his wings be damned. He had proven the lot of us wrong, had let his tenacity and pride allow him to take hold of a hopeless dream, if only for a moment. He burned himself into the memory of this world, allowing none to ignore him, refusing to be forgotten… He truly died without regret, and that is a thing I do not believe had ever been achieved before…nor will it again."

The room was silent, then, a thing that made Vincent arch an eyebrow, as he looked to the girl, who seemed to be far deeper in thought than was her custom to even attempt.

"…Miss Calldrick?"

Lorelei shook her head as though to clear it, a smile on her lips.

"Looks like you're capable of having friends after all," she grinned, "Even if you do just admire them for being everything you think you're not."

The black-haired man's eyes narrowed just slightly, and he simply regarded her with a slightly-irritated gaze for several moments, before gesturing to the plates and forks still laying on the table.

"…I do not believe I wish to teach today…" he told her, "…Wash those upstairs, and then leave them by the top of the stairway."

"What about the knife?" the girl asked, "Shouldn't I just get that done, too?"

"Have I not made it clear how I feel about you coming into contact with sharp objects…?"

"You trust me to go upstairs with all the ghosts and stuff all by myself, but you don't trust me to not accidentally slit my wrists while washing a knife?"

"…enough," he murmured simply.

"Yeah, yeah, alright. I'll see you tomorrow. Happy birthday, Mr. Sunshine."

She left the room quickly, then, certain that his reaction to the unlikely nickname would not be a favorable one, and not quite wanting him to see her jaunty smile.

* * *

Lorelei walked home that night wondering why the box she carried seemed so heavy. She had found it by the stairs, when she placed the clean dishes there, her name written on the top in a far more elaborate script than she would have expected from Vincent.

"Damn it…" she muttered, nearly dropping the box for about the seventh time, "Okay, this is the box I brought the cake in, so it prob'ly has the rest of the cake, but it should _not_ be this heavy. Unless my cooking's decided to throw the law of conservation of mass all to hell, this makes no sense at all."

When she arrived at her house at last, the sun was at the perfect angle to glint off of the front window, making her squint and grope blindly for the doorknob, managing, in the process, to both open the door and drop the box on her foot.

After several minutes of glaring at the brightly-lit sky and demanding to know why she had been created to be clumsy, she stepped inside, closing the door behind her and never once seeing the envelope nailed to her door, the logo of New Hill Family Services stamped upon it.

"Alright," she said, wincing with every step she took and finally sliding the box toward the kitchen, "Time to see what strange new compound I've created…"

She lifted the flaps of the box, her eyes widening at what she saw.

No trace of the cake was left within it, but rather a stack of canned food and a little tin jug of still-cold milk at the bottom, a small bag of rice, cooked and salted beef wrapped in a parcel of waxed paper, an apple and two oranges laid along the top.

The girl could only bite her lip and smile.


	6. The Last Cigarette

Conversations with Lorelei

Chapter 5- The Last Cigarette

Author's note: Well, it's lucky for me that people don't read this for all the death stories, because this chapter doesn't exactly have one. This is more about Vincent himself, which naturally includes a bit of Lucrecia-obsession, but yeah. This isn't the usual way my stories are written.

Also, I'd like to offer a bit of a warning. This chapter contains some fairly serious violence, and while I assume that most of those reading are probably angst-loving Vincent fans who can read brutal passages and come out saying "That was _beautiful_!", I understand that some people may not want to read all the gory details. If you're one of those, please send me an e-mail, and I'll get you a synopsis of this chapter before the next one comes out, so you'll know what happened.

My deepest thanks to all those who have provided me with feedback; I apologize once more for the wait, but moving home for the summer left me without internet for a good long time. I am also in the process of mourning my old copy of FF7. It seems that over five hundred hours of gameplay, over the years, have simply worn it out.

At any rate, thank you again, and please enjoy the story.

* * *

Energetic though she generally was, it was plain to see that Lorelei Calldrick was having an exceptionally good day. It seemed distinctly out-of-place to the townspeople that she was practically skipping toward the Shinra Mansion. What could make the girl so chipper with her brother --and thus her caretaker and livelihood-- gone forever? Her matted ponytail was a testament to the fact that she wasn't accustomed to taking care of herself, and according to the grocer, her supply of food would by now be all but exhausted.

Yet she seemed perfectly content, no bit of grief visible in her expression. So, too, was her voice cheery as ever whenever she turned down families' offers to take her in until something more official could be arranged. Added to the daily trips she made to the mansion and the ever-present pistol at her belt, rumors were flying at full speed, each wilder than the last. Most assumed that, at the very least, she had gone quite mad, as they could see few other explanations for entering the haunted mansion once, much less day after day.

As she pushed aside the creaky iron gate and made her way to the door, the girl was whistling a jaunty tune; she felt better than she had since the day she first shouldered open that difficult gate. She wasn't hungry, for once, and her muscles seemed to greatly appreciate their day off from training. Moreover, it was raining, the day cold enough that it offered the possibility of turning to snow, and she thought it was high time something covered the brown October grass.

Her whistling ceased in an instant when she opened the door, startled by the sight of Vincent standing just a pace away from the threshold.

"…do you not own a jacket?" he asked, no bit of annoyance or concern finding its way into his tone.

"Um…hi," Lorelei blinked, "I get the feeling I've missed something."

"Indeed you have…there are reports of a strange creature near the ruins of the old Mako reactor…"

"Mako?" Lorelei asked, wide-eyed, "Oh, yeah. That old weird energy stuff we had before going back to coal and all that. But, ah, two questions."

"I know because I do own a radio," he matter-of-factly explained, "This matter is relevant to our present conversation because we are going to find the creature and, if necessary, kill it… I cannot say how long this may take; possibly several days…I trust you have no pressing engagements?"

"Oh, sure, just assume I have no life," she griped, rolling her eyes.

"…well?" he calmly inquired.

"Fine, fine, you're right; I socialize about as much as you do. You don't have to rub it in."

"Check the closets for a coat," he told her simply, "I have already packed our supplies."

The black-haired man's eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly when the girl returned to the foyer several minutes later, a slim-fitting coat of mauve suede over her baggy t-shirt.

"…That is hardly practical…" he said, the chill in his voice making the girl take a few awkward steps backward.

"A-alright," she stammered, turning away just as quickly as she could, "I'll go find something else."

She half-sprinted back into another room, and looked to him timidly when she returned, holding up a cobalt-blue bomber jacket with a few black splotches staining the sleeves.

"…much more fitting…" he murmured, his composure regained.

Lorelei shrugged into the coat, too relieved to even notice how baggy it was on her scrawny frame. Nor did she offer a single complaint as Vincent handed her a pack containing her share of the gear. She simply walked along behind him, silently, as he led her through a dusty corridor, and out the side door at the end of it. In fact, it was not until the town was but a tiny dot behind and below them that she quite dared to speak.

"So…is this black stuff from axle grease? It sorta smells like it, though I guess it's dumb of me to ask since you prolly haven't memorized every single object in the mansion."

"It is…" he replied, "…and I have."

"…wow."

"I had the time," he told her with the slightest bit of a shrug.

"So do I get a story?" she asked, guessing that a change of subject was in order.

"…I do not know that the next tale is one to be told on the road…"

"Okay, then; maybe if we stop for the night?"

"You will have another task, then…for now, stay on your guar-"

"Ack!" the girl exclaimed, turning quickly on her heel as she felt sharp talons rake across her back, her pistol in her hands in the space of a few moments.

It was too late, of course, for Vincent had already taken the creature-- a brightly-colored bird whose general shape would have better suited a jet-- down with a single shot.

"Point taken," she relented, "But I still say that wasn't really fair."

"And what brings you to that conclusion, Miss Calldrick?"

"You're using that huge monster of a rifle," she said, sounding very proud of herself for making such an astute observation, "And I've just got this little pistol."

"In my experience…" he replied, brushing a few flakes of the snow that began to fall off of his shoulder, "A rifle bullet through the heart has rather the same effect as a pistol bullet through the heart, though the latter tends to be a bit cleaner. The trick is simply being swift and skilled enough to get either bullet there…"

"…you really scare me sometimes, you know that?"

"If you truly wish it, I'll let you try a larger weapon when we return…The recoil will, of course, be greater as well…"

"Okay, okay! Bluff called. Touché. I lose. -Um…what are you doing?"

Of all the scenes Lorelei had expected to see after the short tiff with the bird, Vincent crouching beside the carcass with a knife in hand was one that wasn't on the list. The sniper seemed calm as ever, cutting under the dead creature's skull and, inexplicably, amid the gore, pulling out a few little balls of gold.

"Hold out your hand," he tranquilly ordered.

"Do I…_have _to?" the girl asked, though she did as he said, already knowing the answer. She winced and bit her lip at the feel of the warm, moist material around the gold as he dropped one of the balls into her hand, her disgust increasingly obvious.

"Most animals…" he told her, taking up a black cloth and cleaning the gold he held before handing it to her, "Do not act so boldly around humans… Those who do generally carry these bits of wealth inside their brains. I am no scientist…but I would guess that these shining intruders, whatever brings them into the creature's body, drive it mad…and so it is that travelers of unique nature support their ventures, at times…To live, in this world, we often must profit from madness…"

"I-It's…" Lorelei stammered, looking to the little ball of gold and red and grey in one hand, and the dirtied cloth in the other.

"Disgusting?" he suggested evenly, drawing a timid little nod from her.

"A moment ago…" the black-haired man continued, "You, more or less, berated me for stealing your kill…You would slay this creature, but cringe at the sight of its blood?"

"Well…yeah…" the girl murmured, her voice weak and broken.

"Until no, you have hunted only ghosts, spectral fears that fade away to nothing once conquered…but the weapon at your belt was made to steal blood and breath from the living. You are a bit above a child, Miss Calldrick, and there are hard truths that you must know…tales alone are not sufficient in revealing the nature of this world…you must claim experience, as well. You will be forced, in your lifetime, to do many things you find tedious, heartbreaking, and even appalling…You cannot move through your days and arrive at your end with the pure heart and soul of childhood…in the end, this world will only be capable of judging you by what is left…clean the gold."

Swallowing hard and clenching her teeth, she did as he asked, and then held the soiled cloth out at arm's length, the newly-cleaned gold still resting on her other hand's palm.

Vincent gave her a nod, folding the cloth into fourths and tucking it away inside his crimson coat.

"Put tem in your pocket…" he instructed, dropping the other bits of gold into her hand. It took the girl several moments to realize what he meant, by which time he had already raised a hand to silently dismiss her protests.

Much to Lorelei's chagrin, Vincent didn't let it end there. He made certain, after healing her initial wounds, that she made the next kill, and before long placed a knife in her grasp, telling her to retrieve the gold of a kill herself. Her protests that he had never trusted her with a blade before only drew a simple reiteration of the command, though he offered no rebuke when it took her well over ten minutes to finish.

The remainder of the day passed largely without event, and by sunset, Vincent was instructing her on how to locate a suitable camping spot. When they finally sat on opposite sides of the small fire he had taught her to build, any vague memory of being well-rested seemed entirely unbelievable to the girl. Also greatly to her surprise was the fact that, despite having cut through the brains of several newly-killed creatures that day, her stomach didn't protest when Vincent handed her a towel dipped in hot water, telling her to clean her hands for dinner.

"Turn around," he said evenly, passing her a packet of travel rations, and the girl obeyed, once more, though her curiosity did its best to try to persuade her to take the slightest glance over her shoulder. She managed to resist only by reminding herself just how frigid his glares could be, and that the last thing she needed was to faint and fall face-first into the campfire. Still, she had to do something, so she elected to ask a question.

"So…why aren't you going to tell me a story now?"

"You have a different task, tonight," he explained, his voice once more muffled by the high collar of his coat, "Turn back toward the fire and open your pack…"

More than a little confused, she did as he asked, her puzzlement only growing as she pulled out a thick, ancient-looking hardcover book.

" _Fundamentals of Algebra and Geometry_?" the girl inquired, "Um…"

"You expressed a desire to study at the Highwind Institute of Technology, and it would appear that you have had little formal schooling…If you wish to pass the entrance examinations, you would be was to start studying now."

Lorelei sighed, shaking her head, her expression for once downcast, though it was given a false glow by the firelight.

"I wanna go, sure," she told him, her tone uncharacteristically subdued, a trace of pain easy to note in it, "But it's not going to happen. Even if I got in, I couldn't afford tuition, so it's sort of a moot point."

Vincent looked at her over the fire until she would meet his gaze, and spoke as calmly as ever.

"The world…is not a kind place…" he murmured, "What we wish for…is seldom as it seems. But I have found that hard work and determination are quite often… 'rewarded'…with a proper set of circumstances to let us achieve our misguided dreams…Longer than long ago, I studied from that same book, seeking to meet the necessary standards for the career I meant to take on…and fate was cruel enough to let me succeed…"

"So what did you-"

"There is a notebook and pen in that pack, as well; I suggest you begin now…I expect you to complete the first two sections of problems before bed."

"But I don't know how to do this stuff!" she protested.

"If you did…" he smoothly murmured, "…I would not have told you to study it. Read the book and complete the problems."

The girl sighed and did as she asked, but she was certain that several decades had passed before she had finished the final problem and closed the book.

"Bring me your work…" he evenly commanded that very moment, as though he were able to hear the tiny thud of the closing book.

As she walked around the fire, Lorelei saw him take a smaller paperback from his own pack, as well as a pen with red ink. For several minutes, he checked her answers against those that seemed to be in the second book, until he handed her work back, half-full of cherry-colored checkmarks.

"Fix those marked as incorrect."

"Huh!" the girl demanded, "How the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"Think. Experiment."

"Why do I even have to do it?"

"If you aim a gun incorrectly during a fight and miss your shot, you do not simply give up or shoot in the exact same position again. You adapt and make adjustments until you make your mark…so adjust."

Grumbling, the girl did as she was told, and by the time she curled up to sleep in the corner of the tent, she had perfected every last one of the problems assigned.

She was quite surprised to find herself more exhausted by numbers on a page than a day of physical training alone.

* * *

The days seemed to stretch on and develop a stead pattern; Vincent awakened Lorelei at sunrise, the two ate a morning meal, and then they broke camp and set off, wandering among the mountains and caves. As they went, he taught her to track, to use terrain to her advantage, and to move less noisily than the awkward girl had thought herself capable of managing. So, too, did they begin to amass a great deal of the tiny golden balls that Lorelei no longer became queasy removing from their prey. After the last light of dusk had fled, they set up camp, and Lorelei took up her assigned lesson, corrected her mistakes, and went to sleep entirely exhausted.

It was not until the third day that they found a trace of anything significant; surprisingly, it was Lorelei who made the discovery. The girl had dropped one of the little golden balls, and it rolled away, leaving her to search for it in the underbrush. The growth was thick, and so she had to grope almost blindly, her brow furrowing in confusion when she felt something soft, smooth and cold. She pulled it out of the brambles to get a better look at it, unsure of what the clammy thing might be.

A scream of agony, revulsion, and fear rent the air, echoing up into the mountains. It was followed by the sound of racing footsteps crushing twigs and brambles, and in mere moments, Vincent arrived at the scene, gun readied, some little spark of emotion--whether it was anger, annoyance, or worry was difficult to tell-- in his scarlet eyes.

Before the girl was a hand that looked haphazardly torn from an unknown arm at the wrist, a tarnished silver ring with a dull-green stone on the index finger. Vincent looked to her just long enough to see the tears running down her cheeks, though he made no move to comfort her, even when she said her brother's name in a choked tone. He only stood, gun at the ready, his eyes narrowing, focusing on something far in the distance. He fired twice, before using the smoking end of the Death Penalty's barrel to give the weeping blonde girl a little prod on the shoulder.

"Get up," he told her evenly, coldly, "If, at any rate…you want revenge…"

"Why should I! I couldn't if I tried…I…If it could kill Ian…" she sobbed.

The gunman's flesh hand came down hard on the girl's cheek, though his voice was as even, as coldly commanding as ever.

"Rage before sorrow, Lorelei…You have the rest of your life to weep, and for the rest of your life you will, but little time to lash out with any effect. Judging by what you have told me…your brother was a miner…a simple worker. You are becoming a warrior. To kill with a bullet…is an easy thing. Moreover…I am uncertain of this creature's strength and whether I can defeat it alone, and while I do not fear death…my survival is in your best interest, and novice help is better than none at all…"

The girl stood, shocked, putting a hand to her bruised cheek. She was still trembling, still crying, but she bit her lip and drew her pistol, swallowing hard. She tried with all her might to steady herself, but those efforts were rendered futile the moment the beast came into view.

It moved far more gracefully than a thing that could easily swallow her whole had any right to, not seeming clumsy in the least as thousands of sticklike legs skittered along the ground, ferrying a body like that of a gigantic, tawny-furred centipede along. It was at least forty feet in length, its head resembling a rats, though it bore a snub-nose and teeth better suited to a crocodile.

It was all the girl could do to keep from being sick at the rancid smell of its breath as it opened its maw to give a rasping roar, and it helped not at all to think that its last meal might well have been her brother. She couldn't fathom how Vincent seemed unbothered by the stench, leveling his weapon and sending a bullet into its mouth. The creature snapped its jaws closed too quickly to be seen, the shot inexplicably bouncing off of its teeth without so much as nicking one.

"…a spell, Miss Calldrick…" he said all too calmly to his companion.

He turned to look at her only when several moments had passed without any response from the girl. The gunman said nothing, merely tugging momentarily on the high collar of his coat, at the cloth covering his nose and mouth.

It took only a moment for Lorelei to catch on, pulling up the collar of the bomber jacket she wore, the barrier weakening the creature's stench. Eyes closed, she clasped the pistol with both hands, bringing it up in front of her face, aligned with her nose, as though aiming straight up into the sky. It seemed easier, that way, to draw upon the words the shiny green sphere set into the gun was whispering to her, and she murmured them aloud, feeling a little tug somewhere behind her eyes as the already cold air took on a more distinct chill. She didn't let herself look until the chant was done, and she saw the creature lurch back, ice crystals suddenly spearing through its snout as though from the inside, and when it roared in agony some of the skin within its mouth had already turned black as though from frostbite.

Vincent wasted no time, using the moment that the creature was disoriented to strike, his bullet piercing one of its beady eyes. The entirety of the left half of the creature's body seemed to go numb, and it began to flail wildly, helplessly, its roars becoming more and more frantic. It seemed, for a moment, that the battle was one, that it was only a matter of finishing the beast off.

All at once, the creature lunged forward, and Lorelei raised her free arm in futile hope of fending it off. She felt its teeth tearing into skin and muscle, scraping bone and threatening to crush it, its hot breath stinging the wounds, making the ribbons of flesh feel as though they were already beginning to be digested. She felt the creature's body whip around, begin to wrap around her, squeezing, her joints beginning to pop…

It was too much. The monstrosity she was sure had devoured her brother was about to do the same to her, was killing her. The pain was unbearable, tears blurred her vision, a scream that seemed too far away to be hers split the air and turned into an almost bestial growl, choked though it was as the creature's powerful body began to constrict her chest. She saw her blood falling to the ground, and for a moment, she laughed madly, at how ironic it was that the first coat she had tried on would have shown the bloodstains just a bit less. She heard a distinct snap, and felt as though shattered glass had filled her lungs, doubtless the result of broken ribs. How long had it been since the creature first took hold of her? What was taking Vincent so long? Why wasn't he killing the beast, or healing her? How could he just stand by and watch this?

"_You cold, heartless bastard_!" she heard herself cry, feeling a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth, rage and grief mixing with agony.

Though Lorelei Calldrick was sure, in that moment, that she couldn't move, she felt the creature's hold weaken just slightly as she defiantly spat her own blood in the creature's good eye, and heard the shots as she raised the pistol, pressing the barrel right against the monster's brow and emptying it of ammunition faster than her finger should have been able to move the trigger, and she was laughing again, painfully, breathlessly laughing as she felt the creature go limp, as it fell away from her into a pile on the ground like an overgrown garden hose, laughing as she collapsed against it, laughing at the sight of her mangled arm, at the fact that she could see her own scratched bones.

She was still laughing when the world began to fade, as Vincent scooped her up and lifted her away from the dying creature. Her hearing lasted a moment longer than her sight, and she heard him faintly beginning to chant before all gave way to nothingness.

* * *

It was dark by the time she awakened, though firelight played against her face. Her left arm was numb from the shoulder down, and she only vaguely realized that something made from red, coarse cloth covered her like a blanket.

The face of the figure that sat beside her, looking down at her, was strange and startling at first. The man's features were at once angular and delicate, and she wondered, briefly, why the fact that his eyes were crimson brought her some comfort. His expression held the slightest, most subtle trace of something between concern and resignation. The thing that drew her gaze most, however, was a scar at the right side of his mouth, almost perfectly round and looking to be the result of some sort of burn.

"…Vincent?"

He simply nodded in reply, turning his gaze to the fire.

"How long was I out?" she asked groggily, raising her good arm to rub her eyes, not quite daring to try sitting up, yet.

"Ten hours…" he told her, evenly as ever, "…you should rest more…"

"I don't really feel like it," she said, trying to shrug, though she found her left arm wouldn't respond.

"…you will be able to use the arm again…" he told her matter-of-factly, "Just not yet, and you will have many scars…"

"Scars are fine," she murmured, shifting the blanket off of her to see that her left arm was wrapped tightly in bandages, "To tell you the truth, I'm surprised you could even get it to be the right shape again."

"Are you hungry…?"

"Nah…I feel sort of sick," the girl replied, looking up at the night sky, "Vincent…what happened? In the fight, I mean…When I shot that thing, it was too fast for me to have really done it. I felt like I was dying, I was in too much pain to do anything, so how did I kill it? What I did…it scared me. Something tells me I would've done the same thing if it had been a person standing in front of me."

"You were pushed beyond the limit of your endurance…" he told her, looking for a moment to the dull bronze-colored metal claw that was his left arm, "Instinct and adrenaline took over, and did what was necessary to ensure your survival…in time, you will almost grow accustomed to it…"

"Oh…" she awkwardly mumbled, her eyes once more flitting to the scar at his lips, only then realizing that he had covered her with his coat, "Vincent?"

"Yes?"

"I wouldn't ask this if I had the feeling things could get much worse for me, and it's pretty stupid of me to ask anyway, because you're going to get mad and just leave me here to die, but how did you get that scar?"

He did not look at her, nor did he speak right away, simply looking into the fire. There was something impossible in his eyes, in those long minutes; something at once ancient and fresh, as though through the brevity of the flickering flames he could see the traces of something timeless, something that had been constant through all his centuries of life.

"I acquired this scar…" he said at last, his tone guarded, seeming strangely exposed spoken to the open air instead of through the cloth of his collar, "Because when you hear that your one reason for living has vanished…the cigarette you're smoking ceases to matter…you cannot do anything about it, even when it's burned down to nothing, and begins to burn your flesh…and yet it was the last I ever smoked. For in that moment, I still had some shred of hope, though it was in its death throes…The taste clung to my palate, and will for the rest of my life, and I know that any other…will be but an empty mockery, for I can never again feel as I felt then…"

"You were in love," Lorelei said, realization in her tone.

" 'Were', Miss Calldrick?" he asked, the slightest trace of a scoff in his tone, "I still am in love…I will be in love for eternity…There was a time when I thought of women as little more than toys…but when I met her, I went from being a complete cad to being entirely, eternally loyal…and in so doing, I sealed my fate…There are those in this world who can love more than one…they, at least, can move on with their lives despite their pain. So, too, are there people who can go through their lives and never love…they are fortunate, indeed. It is a shame for you, Miss Calldrick, for I saw the way you grieved for your brother…I still see that grief and brokenness in your eyes…A part of me wants to shoot you now, and save you from the misery of knowing the end of a greater love before you ever find one…"

"Okay," she said with a grim little smile, "But tell me what she was like, so that once you've shot me dead, I can find her and tell her you said hello."

For the first time, Vincent's expression seemed torn and bewildered, as he looked down at her, half-glaring. She wasn't sure whether he would end up telling her what she wished to know, or shooting her.

She couldn't really find a reason to care either way.

"…her name was Lucrecia…" he said at length, making sure to turn his gaze back to the fire, his composure mostly regained, "And she had the most rare sort of beauty a woman can possess…it was timeless…the moment I saw her, I knew she would still seem as lovely to me at seventy-three as she did at twenty-three…She was brilliant, but humble; I cannot count the times that she let others take credit for her work…she was kind…and found a way to care for those most couldn't even tolerate…above all, she was curious…it was her greatest gift, and her greatest flaw…She saw the world as a great mystery to be unlocked, and her excitement at unraveling its secrets put a light in her eyes and a spring in her step…but so, too, did her insatiable desire for knowledge cause her to…-"

"To what?" Lorelei couldn't help asking.

"…go back to sleep…" Vincent coldly ordered, "…we will start back to town at daybreak…"

In truth, the girl was too exhausted from the ordeal not to obey.

* * *

The trip back to Nibleheim was a silent one. Although Vincent had wordlessly taken Lorelei's pack along with his own, he made no move to aid the girl when she stumbled, nor did he even slow his pace the handful of times that she fell to her knees and wept. When he at last opened the mansion's side door, Lorelei, largely oblivious to what was going on, promptly ran into him.

She looked up bewilderedly at the black-haired man, who stood in the threshold, his face once more obscured by the high collar of his coat, his hand stretched out with the palm up.

"Give me the gun…" he emotionlessly commanded.

"Wh-what!" Lorelei demanded, her puzzlement only growing.

"I merely lent you the weapon…I ask that you give it back, as you will have no more need of it…"

"What are you talking about, Vincent? Is this because of that battle? Look, I know I messed up and let my guard down, I was an idiot, but I'll do better next time! I-"

His hand darted out and plucked the gun from its holster.

"Go home, Miss Calldrick…and do not disturb me again…"

"No!" the girl exclaimed, tears beginning to wet her cheek again, her eyes wide in shock, "Vincent, Ian's gone, he's really gone! I don't know what I'll do, you're all I have left! You have to-"

"Adapt," he interrupted, turning his back on her.

"Why? Vincent, wait! Why are you doing this?"

He spun on his heel, glaring down at the girl with his crimson eyes narrowed to slits, the look fearsome enough to make her stumble back a few steps.

"Because I tire of your questions, Miss Calldrick!" he practically hissed, before turning away once more and slamming the door behind him.

As she heard the click of the lock, Lorelei felt simply empty. She trudged home after several moments of indecision, her mind racing, trying to figure out how she would live. She could no longer deny that her brother was dead, and though her pockets were filled with the gold balls she'd extracted from her kills, she knew the money wouldn't last forever. Without the gun, she couldn't very well make a living off of hunting, and even if she used what gold she had to buy a new one, she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to wander dangerous places without someone skilled like Vincent by her side.

"Someone's going to take me in…" she muttered dispiritedly, only absently noting that her brother's ring was now on a chain around her neck, doubtless the gunman's doing, "I just know it…"

"Well there's the elusive Lorelei Calldrick," a slightly-rasping tenor voice suddenly chuckled.

The girl looked up, startled, to see a tall man with short black hair standing in front of her door. He was dressed in an expensive-looking suit, half-smiling down at her. He looked to be in his early thirties, and there was a long, jagged scar across his forehead.

"What's the matter, honey?" he asked, "Don't recognize your old man? My letters weren't getting through, so I got permission from the New Hill people to just come myself."

"…you're my dad?"

"Hell! Do you have to say that like it doesn't matter in the least?"

"Sorry," she muttered, "I've had a hard day."

"I'll say! What happened to your arm?"

"Nevermind…go on in, the door's unlocked."

"Livin' on the edge, then," he said with a laugh, opening the door and walking in as though he'd lived in the house all his life, "A chip off the ol' block. Say, you got any booze, sweetheart?"

Mumbling that she didn't, the girl stepped into the house behind him, closing the door against the cold October wind.


	7. Prodigal Father

Conversations with Lorelei

Chapter 6- Prodigal Father

Author's Note: Well, it's finally happened. I'm actually more than half-done with this fic. My thanks to all the wonderful people who continue to read and review; your comments both encourage me to continue this story, and give me an idea of what I need to clear up in the next chapters. Also keep in mind that I'm more than happy to answer any questions you might have, just go ahead and e-mail me.

Now, I have a bit of what translates to good news for you. Looking ahead, my financial situation threatens to get rather sticky in the next couple of years. In order to remain capable of paying for college _and_ food, I'm going to have to start jumping into the fray and trying to get some of my original work published. I will not, however, abandon such faithful readers as yourselves. So, I'm going to make every effort to into finish this story; my goal is to complete it by the end of January, sequel and all.

This chapter will focus on Cloud's death, and also wrap up Naomi's part in the story. Likewise, it will include an event that it seems a lot of you have been waiting for. So please enjoy, and thanks again!

* * *

Lorelei sat sullenly on the steps in front of her house, looking at the snow piled up knee-deep on the lawn. It had been three days since she had set foot in the Shinra mansion, and those three days had been something less than the best of her life. The money she had made on her first--and likely last--adventure, which she had figured would last for a month if she was careful, was gone. Her father had helped himself to it to remedy the fact that there had been no liquor in the house, and wasn't, it seemed, the sort of man who would stand for his daughter talking back to him.

She stretched the right sleeve of the blue bomber jacket she wore and took up a handful of the snow, pressing it against a still-sore black eye. The left sleeve of the jacket had been all but destroyed in the battle with the creature that had killed her brother, and she had cut off the last ribbons of it the night before. Still, she wasn't too cold, for she hadn't quite dared to remove her bandages, unsure of whether her arm would be fully healed. It had gone from being numb to stinging, but the pain, like everything else she seemed to be feeling, was dull. There hadn't been any food left for the past two days, and with her father, whose name was apparently Donovan, passed-out on the sofa after drinking his breakfast again, there wasn't an answer forthcoming from him. She stared out at the street, watching it even though nothing and no one went by, trying to piece together what she should do, but feeling as though her mind was covered in a haze.

Everything was too hard to grasp. Her brother's death, her banishment from the mansion, her father's return, and now the sudden lack of any resources. The girl was desperate, true, but she doubted her abilities as a thief. She found herself reaching to the side of her belt, and looking to her hip, shocked at the fact that the pistol wasn't there. That shock hadn't yet faded, seemed to be the one thing she could feel with any real clarity. If she'd had the gun, she would have gone out to the mountains regardless of the danger, but without it…

"Well, that settles that," she muttered, walking around to the back yard.

The girl looked to her dilapidated fence, made from unfinished wooden slats, the item that had been the next on her brother's list of things to repair. She paused for only a moment before walking forward, and was surprised at just how easily it was to pull one of those slats from the rail, at how easy it was to ignore the slivers invading her hand. She supposed it was the one advantage of the sudden detached feeling her entire life had taken on, and so she walked steadily, though without a spring in her step, toward the Shinra mansion.

More than a few of the townspeople whispered to each other at the sight of the large board that sported a few protruding nails that she rested against her right shoulder.

* * *

"Goddamn you, Vincent Valentine, I want my gun back!"

It was the first time the blonde girl had dared to shout within the walls of the mansion, and she had a hard time regretting it when the echoing cry drew a few specters. She hardly paid them any mind, none of her usual rush of adrenaline coming into play as the battle began. It was a long and tedious one; beating the ghosts away with a board was apparently not quite as effective as shooting them, but what injuries she gained, she hardly noticed. When it was through, she stood in the entryway a few more moments, hearing nothing but a roar somewhere within the mansion's corridors.

"Have it your way, then…" she said, almost darkly, making her way down the stairs, idly swatting away the bats that crossed her path. She wasn't quite sure why she went almost immediately to the room in which Vincent had laid her in a coffin, supposedly as punishment for her stupidity, but at any rate, it wasn't an uninteresting place to go.

On any other day, Lorelei Calldrick likely would have fainted at the sight of what looked for all the world to be a crimson-black, winged demon that wouldn't have been capable of leaving the room without breaking the doorway. This time, she could only scoff and shake her head.

"A demon?" she asked, seeming bored with having to ask the question, "So I'm in Hell now? Well isn't that just dandy. Have a nice day."

The girl did what was likely the most foolish thing possible, then, and simply turned away, not paying attention to the ground beneath her feet, only glancing about the basement, trying to find where her former mentor might have put the pistol he lent her. She didn't seem to notice the faint rumbling slightly in front of her, and indeed she didn't until her foot hit something a bit higher than it should have, and that rumbling seemed to shake her bones, to cause a tremor in every part of her body that drove bone against muscle and organ, and she fell onto her back on the normal stone of the floor behind her. It was anything but a graceful fall, the girl landing in just the right way to suddenly throw all of her weight onto her still-bandaged left arm.

Some of the haze, the dullness she had felt creep over all her feelings, physical and otherwise, vanished in that moment. She felt suddenly as though her blood were shifting, boiling, and roiling about within her veins, a sudden splitting pain in her head; her ears began to ring, she felt her throat constrict, her eyes begin to burn…

And then, ever-so-faintly, a wave of something cool sweeping over her, and she looked down in time to notice her brother's ring on its chain around her neck, its dull green stone and tarnished band seeming, for a moment, to shine as though they were new. She could still do little more than writhe on the ground, feeling as though her life was slipping away, and rather unexpectedly actually afraid of death in spite of all that had happened. As the demon somehow, inexplicably made its way out of the door to hover over her, she moved desperately, weakly tapping the board against the demon a few times before defeatedly letting it clatter to the floor.

"Well…shit," she sighed, turning her head to look at her makeshift weapon, a bit of a breathless rasp in her voice as she found herself coughing up a bit of blood, "And I'm screwed-up enough to be coughing up blood for the second time this week. Kickass. So much for that bright idea. Sorry, Mr. Fence-board, I didn't mean for it to end like this. Yeah…that sounded like the most pathetic over-dramatic bullshit in the world. I'll probably go to Hell just for saying it…God…dammit…"

Though it could have simply been a hallucination brought on by a fading life, the demon seemed to tilt its head, as though her words were supremely puzzling.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" the girl irritably asked, "Can't you like, put your ultra-special demon badass claws to work on my sorry self and speed this up? I'm in pain, here…"

It was hard for the girl to tell just what was going on, her vision beginning to blur, seeming to superimpose a more familiar figure upon that of the demon, the two images seeming to flash from one to the next, and felt something take hold of the back of her jacket and pull her up to a sitting position, and an open vial being pressed to her lips. She drank its contents, not noticing the taste, finding herself suddenly being carried, set down in a coffin and feeling the pain slowly recede even as her strength returned.

"So I've been stupid again?" she asked at last, blinking as her vision focused to reveal the figure of Vincent as the one beside her, though what she could see of his face looked paler than usual, and he seemed somewhat out-of breath.

"…must you even ask, Miss Calldrick?" he inquired, his voice as even as ever.

"I want my gun back," she said simply, bluntly, "Give it to me, and I'll leave."

The gunman looked ever-so-slightly taken aback by either her words or her tone, and he did not speak for a moment.

"…you are not yourself, Miss Calldrick, and I am not surprised. That attack…might have done a great many unpleasant things to you, were it not for the protection your brother's ring seemed to offer…"

"You really think that's all I'm mad about!" she demanded, "After you just kicked me out of this place and gave up on me for Lord knows what kind of reason, and took away everything you'd been teaching me? You think I'm only pissed about today when you just send me away in a heartbeat, after making me think you finally trusted me enough to tell me about yourself instead of giving me some sort of bleak history lesson? Who the hell ever told you you could do crap like that!"

"And who, pray tell, gave you the impression that it was acceptable to speak to others in this manner?" he asked coolly.

"I don't care if this is acceptable or not! You said that when I got good enough with the Quicksilver, it would be mine, and I have, so give it back to me!"

Glaring, the girl sat up, making her way out of the coffin and standing, despite feeling more than a little light-headed.

"I'm not as stupid as you always say I am, Vincent," she told him, "I wasn't stupid to come here again, and I wasn't stupid to come here in the first place, it was what I had to do, and I did it, and if you think that makes me stupid, then it makes everyone alive stupid, including you. The bottom line is that if I want to have any chance of making it in this world, I need that gun, so cough it up already!"

"…it is not in your best interest to speak this way…"

"Yes it is! You told me to adapt, and that's what I'm trying to do! I've always done what you told me to, and look where that's gotten me. You just kick me out at the drop of a hat. I don't expect you to want me around anymore, and maybe it's just the fact that I'm too much of a damned optimist, but I don't think you want me to die. If you did, you wouldn't've sent me home with food on your birthday, and don't you deny it, because I doubt it was the work of magic fairies or something. Well, I'm out of food again, and I'm willing to do what I have to to get the money for it myself, but I need the Quicksilver to do that!"

"Sit down, Miss Calldrick…" he said smoothly, his voice still as sterile as could be, as he made a gesture to the coffin once more, "A moment ago, you were nearly dead…in fact, I am surprised you are not… and these hysterics will not help you in the least."

"Goddamn it, have you heard a single word I just said! I'm--the hell!"

The girl lurched back as she caught the object he threw to her, surprised at its weight, and even more surprised to note that it was the textbook she had worked from during their journey.

"Sit down, Miss Calldrick…" he repeated, idly tossing her the notebook and pen as well.

Lorelei didn't quite manage to catch it all, and in fact ending up lying on the floor, the three objects scattered around her, and the coffin knocked over onto its side.

The black-haired man, to his credit, did not so much as turn around, instead making his way out of the room.

"I will be back shortly…you have a great deal of work to complete, so I suggest you begin…"

"Oh…kay," the blonde girl muttered, sitting up and straightening out the room, but electing to sit on the floor, "I guess we're pretending nothing ever happened. That's…convenient."

With a little sigh, knowing better than to argue her points further, she opened the book and did as she was told.

* * *

Though the gunman had promised to return soon, nearly two hours passed before he came back to the room, carrying a tray with a plate, a bowl, and a steaming cup upon it, all in his plain bone-china, setting it beside the girl.

"Give me your work…" he instructed her, taking her notebook and pausing a moment before sitting cross-legged in the corner of the room, beginning to check her answers against those in the smaller book once more, "…and regardless of how long it has been since your last meal, eat slowly…"

It took a great deal of willpower to do as he said, but somehow Lorelei managed, setting the tray down when she finished.

"Thanks," she said, giving a smile that was just a bit timid, "The soup tasted a little weird, but other than that everything was fine."

"It likely tasted odd to you because the broth is one quarter cooked gin…" he casually explained, making another red checkmark with a bit of a flourish, "And 'tact' is not a word contained in your vocabulary, is it, Miss Calldrick?"

"Gin! Um…the hell? Are you trying to get me to pass out or something, Vincent?"

"It has been cooked, so the alcohol is no longer potent," he told her, not looking up from his task, "Although…perhaps next time I should remedy that, as the result you've suggested would be…conducive to keeping this place relatively peaceful…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm too loud. So what the heck ever possessed you to put gin in soup?"

"Necessity…is the mother of invention…"

"I'm not even going to try to comprehend that," the girl said, blinking.

"That is likely for the best…while your grasp of the quadratic equation is more firm than I expected it would be, you have not displayed a knack for putting two and two together…"

"You seem much less cool now that I've heard you tell a bad math joke."

Vincent didn't favor her words with a response, handing her book and notebook back to her.

Lorelei's blue eyes skimmed over the paper, widening in surprise.

"_Kyeah_!" she exclaimed, "I only got three wrong!"

"Surprisingly…that is the case," he relented, nodding, "Though your handwriting could use a great deal of improvement…"

The girl chewed on the cap of the her pen for a moment, looking over the problems she had missed, and slapping her forehead.

"Oh, _duh_!" she cried, with a strange tone of triumph, her hand all but flying across the page for but a few moments before she practically skipped across the room to hand the paper to Vincent, "There, you can check these again."

The man regarded her for a moment, and then simply nodded.

"…well done. Your choice of an educational institution may not be as misguided as I originally believed…"

Her eyes widened once more, and she took a step back, confusion finding its way onto her expression.

"You didn't even look at them."

"…I did not have to…"

A smile touched Lorelei's lips as she walked back over to her place, drinking down the very last sip of the now-lukewarm tea. She had, in her lifetime, been aware that she had very little to be proud of, and this small success made it easier to forget that there was simply no way she could ever afford to attend the Institute.

"Now then…" Vincent began, as calmly as ever, "It has been some time since last you heard of Naomi Strife; fortunately, as patience is not your strong suit, you will no longer have to practice that virtue."

The blonde girl sat at attention, then, waiting for him to go on, surprised when he simply raised an eyebrow.  
"What!" she demanded, confused, "Are you just trying to make me squirm right after saying I don't have to be patient anymore?"

"…I was waiting for you to interrupt…"

Lorelei gave him a look that rather resembled that of a wet cat.

"You seem to be in a poor mood, Miss Calldrick…" he remarked, coolly as ever, "I have seldom seen you so…"

When she offered him nothing but another glare, he offered a bit of a noncommittal shrug, closing his eyes for a moment.

"What Naomi Strife did…would shock nearly anyone. At eight years old, she killed Marlene, who had been as a sister to her…sealing her surrogate father's fate. Those of my old comrades who were yet alive--Cloud among them-- wished to find her, in hopes of discerning what had caused her to act. They wished to 'help' her, though it is hard to say what they thought they could possibly do…I…"

Lorelei's brow furrowed at his sudden pause. She was accustomed to his manner of speech, of the way he let his statements trail slowly away to nothing before he began the next, but now he broke off at an entirely unusual point. She noticed his eyes were on her, seeming to study her black eye, his expression more unreadable than ever.

"Wh-what? I'm fine…" she stammered, a shiver running through her, "And it's not like you care, right? I'm just the annoying little--Vincent, come _on_! What's up? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"…You will not like what I have to tell you…" he murmured, his voice still even, though there was a strange undertone of intensity in his voice, "…when this story is through, you will have every right to leave this place, never to return, taking the Quicksilver with you…but until I have finished, you _must _remain, nor should you disregard the tale…Do you understand, Lorelei…?"

"Um, no, I actually have know idea what the-"

"_Swear it, Lorelei_!"

The words were not shouted, but nevertheless, they jarred her, especially paired with the fact that he called her by her first name, as happened so rarely. Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped; she could scarcely have been more frightened if he had fixed one of his icy glares upon her.

"Alright, I promise," she said meekly, picking a few balls of lint off of her sweatshirt purely as an excuse to avert her eyes.

He nodded, at that, seeming to fully regain what composure he had lost, his voice cool as ever when he spoke once more.

"I believed that there was no hope for Naomi. It is…difficult enough to recover from becoming a killer…some find it more possible than others. But one who, as a child, can commit such an act, one whose hands are stained so early with innocent blood…will find that that stain sinks in too deeply, and can never fade, much less be washed away. Death…killing…they do not appall me, for they have long been close companions of mine…Even the loss of innocence, if there is a purpose behind it, is a thing I can meet with indifference. But such senseless ruination of character…such degeneration so early…is a thing even one so full of sin as myself must deplore…On Naomi's part, as well as her father's. A child drawn to such lengths…needs a guide to reach that deep level of Hell…

"I knew where Naomi Strife hid. I had known for a long while…lost souls have a certain sense for one another…and it was the only place she could have gone to evade sight so long. I knew, before Barret's body was cold, where that demon child had fled. I did not tell my old comrades. For five years, they searched, and when at last they saw the obvious…only then did I agree to go with them. I was needed in that search; I had seldom felt so certain about my actions…Certainty is something we are not often meant to feel, and so it must be heeded when it truly shows its face.

"I saw it all too clearly, reflected in the light of Cloud's eyes. You've heard little of Mako energy, I imagine, but there were some men treated with it, in bygone days…Cloud was among them…it gave his eyes an eerie glow, but that is not the light of which I speak. No…In Cloud's gaze, I saw the same subtle madness so many men wear in their own time. It is the look of the loving zealot, who would cast all the world into a fire for but the chance to hold those he loves…to make amends for all his daily failures, for all that has been found wanting in his character…It is the look of a man who hunts a holy grail he will never find, for even if the object of his affection is made his, he has deified it so that the true thing can not hope to satisfy him. That fire in the eyes, that very embodiment of passion and devotion, is a thing that disfigures the soul beyond repair. Cloud Strife…wore it more often than most. A part of me wonders if that wicked flame ever truly died in him after he laid Aeris to rest…it had always been there when he searched for her, more intense, doubtless more scarring each time. It burned now white-hot, and the sight of it…told me he could not return from the place where his daughter lurked anything but a broken madman with a heart of ashes.

"And so we went up into the mines, which had not yet been reopened…she had chosen one of those solitary places for herself, and it was there we found Naomi Strife, a thirteen-year-old girl, but more beast than human in her tattered, filthy clothes, with a wild look in her eye, rough-handed and half-starved with scars innumerable, even if one only counted those on her skin. She could hardly speak, when they questioned her; words had so long been strangers to her tongue, her sentences childish, her voice gravelly as an old man's. Yet my companions…Yuffie Kisagiri, Nanaki, whom the history books call Red XIII, and Cloud Strife…seemed not to notice that a change had occurred. They coaxed the girl-beast to them, and how her sire apologized, how he confessed, how close he held her to him…

"But still I saw the maniac gleam in his eyes, and one far more frightening, one even more wild, one entirely without reason in hers. There was an old half-rusted blade in her hand, but its edge was still keen, and I saw her angle it so that but a thrust of the wrist would bring it home in her weeping father's back. She had not changed. She was no more than a monster, though Yuffie and Nanaki were too blinded by what they thought was success to see it. They had drawn her out, yes…but to what end? So many wild creatures are timid, and skitter away when men approach, killing only when they must…and so had Naomi been. My old comrades had taken away that fear of men, and now there was a lust for blood and vengeance in her eyes, a desire to repay the world at large for her own suffering. Though I could not blame her, there was only one logical way to respond. Cloud had his back to me, and Naomi was so small he blocked her completely, but…He was a broken man long before that day…And so I did what had to be done.

"I killed them both with a single bullet. Through his heart, and her forehead. …and then I left. My two remaining comrades did not speak to me for a long while…but I am certain that what I did was right. …Strife…it was a fitting name. Cloud and his daughter caused so much pain to so many undeserving souls…that their deaths were necessary to stem the tears. Tifa…Marlene…Barret…All lost to that sire and whelp I slew. I am a man without pity, Miss Calldrick…but not a man without a conscience. For the good of the world…those two had to die. I offer no further justification, and you may judge me as you will…but understand that some deaths are necessary…that some must die so that others may live…"

He paused a moment, then, one eyebrow arching up at the sober-faced girl with her bandaged arm. Wordlessly, he stood and tossed her the pistol, and she caught it easily, placing it in the holster at her belt, her expression, for once, as enigmatic as his own.

"I was…surprised to be unburdened by your interruptions, Miss Calldrick…" he murmured, "Have you, for once, nothing to say?"

Lorelei stood, then, shaking her head.

"Wouldn't that be the answer to your prayers?"

"…Miss Calldrick?"

His voice was still even, as though his interest in her reaction were still purely academic, as though anything she did or said in that moment was meaningless to him. Still, though it might have been a mirage, Lorelei thought she felt the slightest bit of a flinch from him when she met his eyes.

"I don't know," was all she said, forcing her voice to stay even, "I'll tell you if I come back, but I've got a lot to do right now."

He simply nodded, but then, as she made her way toward the door, he caught her by the shoulder, turning her to face him once more. His gaze focused for a moment on her black eye, and he clicked off the safety of the gun in its holster at her belt.

"Remember what I have said, Lorelei…"

"Remembering what you said doesn't mean I agree with it," she said, shaking her head again, making her way out of the mansion once more once he relinquished his grip on her shoulder.

She slipped quietly into the house, for her father was still asleep, taking a cloth napkin and her brother's switchblade from a kitchen drawer and making her way out once more. She walked in the direction of the mansion, but passed it by, heading for the mountains and solitude.


End file.
